Pyrophobia
by fool202
Summary: The Dovahkiin is traumatized at his execution by the dragon's flames. If Skyrim's fate rests with this Pyrophobic, how will anyone survive? *Male, half-breed Dovahkiin, M/M*
1. Chapter 1

**Pyrophobia**

"Next, the half-breed."

I remembered that this morning, I'd just said my farewells to Grandmother Jasha as I went to bathe in the slow-moving river to the south of our village. As I was pushed to the chopping block, I recalled wading into the water, the underwater ground cold and rough, much like the ground underneath my knees when I'm shoved down to worship the block of wood that will soon have my blood spilt on it.

I remembered beginning my walk back home when I saw a thick Elk running near the border—far too near for another hunter to chase it, especially with the civil dispute in Skyrim, but close enough for someone as poor and desperate as myself. I hadn't eaten in three days, and my elderly neighbor (Grandmother Jasha) was also running low on rations. I picked up my bow and Elven dagger, intent on killing the Elk and bringing my bounty back home for the village to share.

I never got that far.

As I hear the axe being swung back, I remember seeing the ambush of Imperials as they took down a large group of Stormcloaks—and one man claiming to merely stealing a horse, not being involved with the other lot—and attempted to escape. However, before I could run far enough out of range, I was hit with the hilt of a soldier's sword in the back of the skull. Hours later, I awoke on the carriage-ride to my execution, having been mistaken for a Stormcloak and taken into custody.

As I knelt at my final resting place, I prayed to the Divines for mercy. Under my breath, I even hoped that Talos gave me a blessing, perhaps that I won't die here after all. That I might be able to return to Grandmother Jasha and little Citin and Lotus and help feed them like the rest of the village.

But the axe was dropping, I could hear the birds silence their singing and the air being cut open.

Then, there is incredible pain. Indescribable, burning pain that made me wretch. I had been starving for so long, nothing came up, but the burning continues until I feel myself hauled up. My skin is still on fire, and I whimpered in a way that I will later refuse happened. I was half-led, half-carried away from the block and stumbled with my guide until I was shoved to a hard floor and felt the vibrations from a door slamming.

My left ear was ringing loudly while I heard nothing in the right for a long time. I realized, with dread in my stomach, that the flames had hit me on my left side, and my eyes had been wide open. The fire had had more than enough power to envelope the rest of my body, burning my entire face and neck, and singeing my clothes so badly I could feel the splintering wood through the little remnants.

I felt someone kick me in the side and groaned. I was rolled onto my back and someone repeatedly prodded my face until hot tears that felt as if they were boiling within my flesh started running down my mangled cheeks. No one touched me for a few minutes until the building shook and I was hefted to my feet once more.

"C…Pen…Eyes?" My left ear had stopped ringing as much and I began hearing snippets of the voices around me.

"W-What?" I asked, my voice rough with the ash caught in my throat.

"I asked if you could open your eyes," The voice was gentle, and I recognized it as the blonde Nord from the carriage. He'd been in front of me in line before we lined up to the block. What was his name? Radcliff? Ramon?

"…Ralof?" I muttered, looking blindly towards where I thought the voice had come from. I heard a slight chuckle as he propped me up against a cold, concrete wall.

"Yes. I'm Ralof. Can you open your eyes?"

I tried. My right eye opened with little encouragement, but when I attempted to open my left, the pain was so intense that I collapsed. Pus and blood poured from the wound that had once been my eye, and Ralof waited patiently until it had slowed to a trickle before leading me up the staircase. There, another Stormcloak was already clearing the rubble that had fallen with the first attack on the building.

"We need to clear this away before—"

Another burst of fire and I fell backwards, screaming and trying to conceal myself as I curled up against the wall. The fire didn't touch me, but I felt the impossible heat as it crumbled the wall and crushed the other Stormcloak. Ralof was right beside me once the flames had receded. There was a horrible screech from outside the walls as whatever had made the fire crashed to the ground. Had it been killed? Or was it just so large that when it landed, it felt as if the earth itself was shaking?

"Come on," Ralof said, helping me to my feet. He led me to the hole in the tower that the fire had made, making a clear view of the inn next to it with a hole in the roof. "You need to jump. I'll see if there are any other survivors and follow, but you're on your own for now. Can you handle that?"

Without thinking, I nodded. Ralof patted my back and waited for me to carry out the order. I breathed in, feeling the cold air burn my charred lungs and scorch my throat. Ignoring the pain, I steeled myself and jumped, falling through the air and landing hard on the floor of the inn, breaking through the brittle wood and hitting the main floor. I groaned in pain but stood as best I could. There had been some filling from a bed on the upper level where I'd fallen before I'd broke through the floor, but it hadn't provided much cushion. I stumbled from the building and leaned against the door frame before moving out into the open. There, I saw a large dragon with its head down like a playful dog.

…Dragon?

My mind went blank as I relived the horrific burning at my execution. I felt my arm pulled and snapped back from my thoughts, finding myself being towed by an Imperial soldier. I was too dazed to refuse the help of my executors, but soon found the strength to pull away when the dragon had taken flight. Despite his objections and pleads to follow him, I made my own way out of the area.

"Half-breed!" Ralof called as I neared the Helgen Keep. I turned to him, ready to follow, when the Imperial grabbed my arm, urging me to go with him.

Ralof and the soldier argued back and forth with each other as I went into a dazed state again. My burns were returning to their unbearable state of pain and I was going blind in my right eye again, while a fresh wave of blood started in my left. I pulled away from the Imperial and stumbled towards the Keep.

I collapsed before I even made it to the steps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pyrophobia**

When I woke up next, I was in a stone tunnel, the faint sounds of the dragon attack trembling the ground but doing no further damage. Who had brought me here? Why had they taken an injured half-breed that couldn't even stand on his own two feet?

"You awake, Half-breed?"

I opened my right eye and looked up. Ralof stood over me, leaning to inspect my face. He grinned when he saw me looking at him, but I found that I couldn't return the gesture without extreme pain.

"Your burns look…Better," Ralof said, scratching the back of his neck.

"Liar," I replied. Ralof just smiled again and offered a hand to help me up. I accepted it, standing shakily and leaning against his shoulder when I found I couldn't quite stand on my own.

"Do you have a name, Half-breed?" Ralof asked, steadying me and holding out his hands as if I might fall at any moment.

"No," I said sarcastically. "Where I come from we don't have names. We just growl at each other and hope it's the right person."

"Funny," Ralof said. "What growl would you be called by?"

I rolled my good eye, but smiled on the inside, "Godrael."

Ralof raised an eyebrow, looking slightly amused, "That's a Nord name."

"My mother was a Nord. My father was a Khajiit."

Ralof nodded, leading me deeper into the tunnel and asking me about my life.

"Where are your parents now?" He asked, stopping near an oil lamp and handing me a Stormcloak uniform with a heavy blood stain over the heart.

"My father was taken away by Imperial soldiers," I said solemnly, undressing from the rags I'd been wearing and putting on the armor. It didn't fit perfectly—I had a Khajiit build, and Nords were much thicker—but it wasn't falling off at the moment. "And my mother died from starvation when we escaped Skyrim and crossed the border into Cryodiil. There was a village there of refugees and they took me in just before my mother died. I became a hunter to try and support the village. Mostly just my neighbor, Jasha."

"Why did the Imperials take your father?" Ralof asked, turned away from me so as to give me privacy (though, I'd grown up either on the run or in a village where someone had the right to walk into your home without permission and stay as long as they wished, so privacy wasn't something I needed), but moving his head as if to peer over his shoulder.

"Because he was a Khajiit, and he was apparently trespassing in Skyrim by being there. They almost killed me until my father claimed that his wife had been unfaithful and that I was full Nord. It's better to be labeled as a bastard then be dead—at least to my father."

"I'm…Sorry."

I looked up, "Aren't you fighting for the same thing? The racial purity of Skyrim?"

Ralof looked down, "I just want to be able to worship who I want to worship. It's mainly Mers that we have a problem with. I have nothing against the Khajiit, myself. And your father was married to a Nord woman, anyway. He had a right to stay in Skyrim with his wife and child."

I looked away, pretending to mess with the armor, "Thank you."

"We should get moving if we want to get out of this tunnel before it collapses."

I followed Ralof through the tunnel and then through a large cave. I shot a bear and killed a few Frostbite Spiders, which was nothing to years of taking down Sabre Cats and the rare Mammoth (which came with the dangers of Giants, which I killed with the help of another hunter). It was all numbed by the impending threat of a dragon that stuck to my burned body and reminded me why we were in the cave. Finally, the exit was in sight.

"You know," Ralof said as we emerged, stopping and looking up as the dragon disappeared into the distant mountains. "I have a sister in Riverwood. I don't think she'd mind if we stayed with her until we knew what to do. That is, if you want to take me up on that offer."

I shrugged, "Since I have no other option, it isn't as if I could refuse. If I tried to go back to the refugee village, I would be killed."

"Can I take that as a yes?"

Ralof's smile was infectious. I grinned back to my best ability, even though it was incredibly painful. Ralof patted me on the back, careful of the burned flesh, and started walking down the path that would lead to his childhood home.

And mine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Italicized named mean POV has changed. If there isn't one, Godrael is the POV. Okay? Okay.**

**Pyrophobia**

_Ralof_

As soon as we made it to Gerdur's house, Godrael was close to passing out. He'd been walking too much in his condition and had startled my sister and her husband with his appearance. His skin was dark red in the better places, and burnt black in the worst. His left eye was still closed and he'd learned not to open it in fear of it bleeding. He didn't seem to be able to hear in his right ear and the hearing in his left seemed to come and go at random. He was a mess.

I remembered when he'd been thrown onto the carriage. He'd been knocked out, but when the captain had ordered someone to chase the "one running away", the soldier had been warned of the claws he had. It was obvious to everyone that saw him that he was at least half Khajiit, and that seemed to scare the soldiers and others in the carriage.

I just marveled at how he seemed to be a Nord, but had such a lithe build. His skin was pale, and his hair was dark and heavy, two sections of the hair braided off and curved to the back of his head like a crown. He had two rings in his bottom lip that curved over the plump skin, ending in spaded points that didn't quite meet. He'd been wearing rags and had a low-grade bow in his hand before they'd thrown him in the carriage. After that, they'd thrown all weapons found on him in the nearest river and carried on.

"How'd he get those burns?" Gerdur asked as I settled Godrael on the guest bed in her home. "They look very bad."

"There was a dragon attack at Helgen," I said. "I'll explain later. Your son is watching for the Imperials, right?"

"Yes. He said he'd come tell us if he saw anyone."

"Good," I stood and inspected the burns on Godrael. Gerdur had stripped him and placed his armor in a wash pan to be taken care of later. There were some parts of his body that weren't quite burned and were just turning a gentle red shade. The rest was either blistered or scabbed over, angry burns that were the color of dried blood. I worried most about the skin that looked as if it had died, and his left eye. "I'm going to see if the trader has any cures for burns. If not, I'll have to send someone to Whiterun to see the Alchemist. If it comes to that, I know she'll have something—there were many stories from the others about her."

I took one last look at Godrael's burned face—faintly imagining the healthy skin that had once been there—before I turned and walked out of the house. I made my way to the Riverwood Trader and entered the building, finding Lucan arguing with his sister before hurriedly shushing her. I would've been suspicious of their behavior if there weren't a dying person at my sister's home.

"Hello, Lucan," I said, approaching the counter. "I was wondering if you had any burn remedies available."

"Yes, we have many potions for you to look at," Lucan said with his usual bargain grin. "Is it a minor burn or something a little more serious?"

"Life or death situation, actually," I said soberly, looking at the potion bottles he'd set in front of me.

"Then you might take this," He said, offering the left-most bottle with the label 'Restore Health—potent' "It's ten Septims per bottle."

"I'll take three," I said, wanting to be sure that Godrael would be healed to the fullest extent.

"All right then. Here you go," He gathered three bottles and waited for me to give him his payment. The potions cleared my coin purse extremely well—I only had three Septims left after I'd paid him in full.

Lucan gave me a little salute and a grin, something I didn't return. Despite the way I'd acted around Godrael, I wasn't really in the mood for grinning. I'd just been captured on a mission with Ulfric Stormcloak (who no doubt probably thought all of us on the mission were incompetent), I'd nearly been sent to execution, I'd seen one of my shieldbrothers killed by the axe, and our presence near the border had gotten an innocent refugee injured and, possibly, left him at death's door.

I felt despicable and filthy, having watched Godrael go from a healthy—perhaps even attractive, if I were to admit that to myself—young man, probably just barely of legal age, to the burnt husk of a person he was at the present. The entire walk to Gerdur's house from the trader's was spent loathing myself and finding a suitable punishment for myself after Godrael was adequately healed.

When I opened the door, I saw that Godrael had woken up and was looking at the ceiling with his good eye.

"There are one hundred and sixty-five boards in this ceiling. Did you know that? I wish I didn't," Godrael frowned at the potions. "What's that?"

"Hopefully, these potions will fix you up," I said, walking over to him and helping him sit up. I uncorked the first bottle and held it up for him. In response, he held up his mangled hands. "Oh right, sorry."

Godrael sighed, "I guess the potions are worth a shot. I really can't get any worse, can I?"

"You could be dead," I offered, tipping the mouth of the bottle against his lips and watching his face twist into an expression of agony. His throat must be burned, too.

"That would be an improvement," He replied, his voice even more broken than before.

I didn't reply. It wouldn't feel right to tell him—a near-perfect stranger—that I wouldn't have liked it if he was dead. I wanted to tell myself that it was because I'd feel responsible, since it was the our group of Stormcloak soldiers that had gone past the border and not checked ahead for an ambush and got him dragged into this.

But a real Nord doesn't lie. And a real Nord especially doesn't lie to _himself_.

Godrael got the first and second bottles down without much complaint, and the lighter red areas of his skin had turned a healthier pink. The scabs had ebbed away and the skin was smooth in most places, but there were still some black skin and a few blisters. It was an improvement.

Godrael, with a bit of a struggle, managed to open his left eye, though it remained a bit swollen. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were blue. For a while, I'd forgotten he was part Khajiit, but those eyes would most likely be a reminder. While blue eyes weren't uncommon among the Khajiit, it was rare to see a Nord with such light eyes.

"Think you can get another bottle down?" I asked, holding up the last bottle. "It might help with the last bit of swelling and the blisters."

Godrael shrugged and looked at me. It occurred to me that if the potion took no effect, it probably meant that Godrael's remaining injuries would be permanent. I could only hope that his eye went back to normal and his skin didn't remain charred and numb.

"I guess. I'm not sure it'll help much, though," He admitted. He didn't wince as much when he swallowed the potion, and I took that as a good sign that he was healing.

Godrael was still for a moment before he pushed me away from the bed and wretched violently. He was bent over the side of the bed for at least five minutes before he finally stopped vomiting and sat up, leaning against the pillow and panting.

"Sorry," He muttered, coughing slightly. "I'll repay you for the potions, but I don't think I can get another one of those disgusting things down to save my life."

"Thankfully, it probably won't come to that," I said. "I think the other two did enough. Can you stand at all?"

Godrael nodded and threw his legs over the side of the bed. I suddenly became hyperaware that he was naked and his skin had turned back to the light flesh coloring it had before. He'd become that attractive young man in the carriage again, and I willed myself to only look at his face.

It seemed that he absorbed enough of the last potion for his left eye to lose its swelling, and his face was ridded of the dark redness that had come with the burn. The only thing that even looked damaged on him was his right ear, which still wasn't receiving any sound from the way his jaw kept putting pressure on that side, as if popping it might help his deafness.

"I think my legs are fine," Godrael said, standing with minimal help. "I think I could even walk. Is there a bar in town?"

"Yeah. It's at the Inn. My sister's husband is very familiar with the place."

Godrael smiled a little, "Good. I need a drink. I'll even buy you one, if you want."

I gave him a grin and nodded, "Sounds good. But, um, you might want to get dressed first."

Godrael looked around for his armor and saw that it was still in the washing bin. The only thing dry were the trousers, which hadn't had blood on them and didn't need to be cleaned. I looked around for a bit and realized that Godrael wore the same size shirt as Frodnar, my nephew. Godrael seemed to miss the insult when I said my sister's ten-year-old had a shirt that might fit him and just accepted that garment.

"A shirt is a shirt, as long as he doesn't mind me borrowing it until the armor's dry."

"I'm sure he won't. If he does, he'll just play a prank on you. He thinks they're bad, but they really aren't."

Godrael laughed, "Reminds me of a child in my village. His name's Lotus…I wonder how he's doing…"

The way Godrael had described his village, it was horrifyingly likely that Lotus had died from starvation during his absence. Godrael had been one of the main food suppliers in his village, and there'd been a recent period where he'd been forced to forego giving himself food in favor of feeding the children and elderly. He explained that, even now, he hadn't had anything to eat in about five days, and he feared his stomach would never distend again.

"It wouldn't be good if I gorged myself now," He said, poking his collapsed belly. "Maybe yesterday or the day before, but if I did right now, I'd throw up again. I learned that lesson the hard way, except it was worse then than it would be now."

"Why?"

Godrael smiled mirthlessly without looking at me, "It felt like I was wasting food. If you could believe it, I thought of eating the vomit so I wouldn't be throwing away the food I'd spent hours hunting and had selfishly devoured by myself. If I was going to eat it by myself and feel bad about it, I was going to make sure it was eaten."

Godrael looked up and saw my slightly disgusted face.

"I didn't, of course, but I thought about it. If that gives any indication of the level of desperation I was at."

"It does," I said, pursing my lips. "Paints a very pretty picture. Now, if you're dressed, we can go to the Inn and get some drinks. They sell food too. But…Don't go overboard, for the sake of the Inn's maid."

Godrael laughed again and nodded, swearing on the Divines he would control himself. We left the house just as Gerdur was walking up and she squinted at Godrael walking past her before a look of recognition dawned on her.

"Now I remember where I saw him," She muttered at me.

"What?" I asked. I was sure we'd never met Godrael before. He did mention coming from Skyrim, but he was most likely from somewhere closer to the border.

"Yes. He used to live right outside town with his mother. I think he had a father, but he never talked about him, so everyone assumed he was dead. He used to call his mother something strange…"

"Manna?" I guessed, remembering that Godrael had had to tell me what he was referring to when he used that word, talking about his family.

"That's it. He used to have foot races with you and Hadvar. He'd laugh when you two started arguing. I don't remember much more about him other than that you were really sad when he stopped coming to town with his mother."

I remembered that. I'd had a friend when I was younger who I remembered having dark hair, light eyes (though I hadn't remembered the exact color) and unusually thick nails. He used to joke that if he wasn't careful about what he scratched, they got sharp, like claws. Then he'd make a sound like a cat, that I remembered being a strangely accurate to the actual animal. I remembered him breaking up the fights me and Hadvar got in over the foot races. I remembered we used to call him Goddy, because his real name was too long.

"It's too bad he got caught up with the Imperial ambush like he did. I'll get his armor cleaned up so he can go do what he needs to."

For a while, I just stared at Godrael as he sat next to me at the bar. He'd ordered some food (couldn't tell you what it was), he'd ordered us both drinks (couldn't tell you what they were), and he'd paid for all of it (couldn't tell you where he'd gotten it). Was he really the same Goddy I'd known as a boy? Was he really that friend that was so happy all the time, had laughed so easily, and had made it a habit to keep Hadvar and I from beating each other senseless?

A thought struck me. Hadvar's behavior that morning when the dragon had attacked had been odd, and I'd been wondering for some time what had caused it. Had he remembered who Godrael was, and hoped that he could save him? Had he remembered that the walking corpse as our childhood friend? Was that the reason he'd begged and pleaded with the half-conscious boy not to go with me?

"You know, with how long you've been staring, you could've painted me. That would last a lot longer."

I looked up at Godrael to see him smirking at me, lips pausing at the mouth of his mead.

"Sorry, I—" I looked down and then back up. "Do you remember when you used to live in Skyrim?"

"Yeah," He said, sipping the mead and poking at his meal. "I used to live around here, actually. I remember that I used to be friends with two Nord boys that liked to argue with each other."

"My sister remembers you," I said. "And I was one of those Nord boys. We called you Goddy."

Godrael bit his lip, "Now I remember. There was that one boy…Hadvar. He used to call you Loffy and argue with you about the rules of foot racing. That nickname was the death of you, I swear."

I grimaced, "I hated that nickname."

"It was even worse when you two got older and your parents started talking about you both getting married in a few years," Godrael said, turning nostalgic. "Then you and Hadvar started disliking each other even more, and when I started siding with you, Hadvar would sing that stupid little song about people sitting in a tree and kissing. And he used the nicknames. Awful."

"That 'Loffy and Goddy sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g'?" I snorted. "That _was_ awful. He got on my nerves sometimes."

Godrael laughed, "Really? I hadn't noticed. All I felt between you two was compromise and friendship."

"Funny."

"I thought so."

We sat there well into the night. My brother-in-law had been near us at the bar, but was already drunk by the time Godrael had ordered his first hard alcohol. We talked about the past and he talked about what life was like after his father was taken away. His mother, a pretty Nord woman by the name of Evette, had taught him the traditional Nord ways and had raised him to believe in Talos and not give in to the demands of his banishment from religion. His father, a Khajiit named Darisha who he'd gotten his hair color from, had also encouraged the freedom of worship, and Godrael suspected that this could've been one of the reasons that he'd been taken into custody.

I realized after we were told by Orgnar that it was tomorrow that I'd never talked to someone for so long in my life. And if I had, I hadn't enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed talking to Godrael. I wanted to keep talking, but it was too late for us to be out, and Godrael needed sleep if he was going to finish healing.

"We should get going," I said, standing and brushing off my armor. I stopped when I heard Godrael giggle and confirmed that, yes, he was most definitely drunk. I slung his arm over my shoulder and helped him up out of his seat.

"Hey, Ralof," Godrael whisper drunkenly as we left the Inn. "I have a secret to tell you."

"Oh yeah?" I asked, humoring my drunk friend. "What's that?"

"You know that song Hadvar used to sing about us sitting in a tree?" He muttered, leaning against me as we ventured across the uneven ground.

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well," Godrael leaned up and leaned his head on my shoulder. "I just wanted to tell you—I really never minded that song."

If Godrael hadn't fallen asleep on me at that moment, I might've dropped him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Pyrophobia**

Ralof had finally fallen asleep after doting on me all day. He seemed a little distant while nursing my remaining wounds and my hangover. It had been a while since I'd had the luxury of alcohol (A caravan of Nords returning to their homeland had stopped by the village and sold us mead for close to nothing) and I'd overdone it yesterday. Had I embarrassed him somehow? Had I said something disturbing? Maybe, had I revealed something about myself that inspired pity in him?

All right, the last option wasn't true. I knew that because I'd been completely open with my past so far. If he didn't pity me before I got drunk, he had a heart of stone.

But maybe we'd seen his sister when he dragged me home and she'd gotten mad at him for letting me drink myself into a stupor in my condition. It wasn't really his fault—he'd been staring at me all night, sure, and talking to me, but he didn't pay attention to my drinking at all, or else he probably would've stopped me.

My brow furrowed when I considered another option. Did he perhaps feel…guilty? Was it possible that he said something (did something?) he knew I wouldn't like, and feared that I would remember? That would explain the resistance against repeating the events from last night, and the constant care I'd received from the moment I woke up. Did he think I'd actually remember and tried to spoil me as an apology, or did he do it out of actual care for my wellbeing?

Maybe I was looking into this too much. Maybe it was just that we were friends in the past and had had a good time at the bar last night. Maybe he knows how bad a hangover can be and just took care of me because I was his friend. Maybe I should get some sleep.

Unfortunately, Gerdur had asked that I go to Whiterun in the morning to tell Jarl Balgruuf of the dragon attack and request that protection be sent for the people in Riverwood, and the sun had started its slow ascent across the sky.

I sighed, rubbing my hand across my face in an effort to lessen the incredible weariness that had settled in me at the sight of that damned morning star. I sat up in bed and stretched, having laid in the same position on the mattress without having gotten any actual sleep, and threw my legs over the side. I looked at Ralof, who was curled up underneath his own blanket against the early morning chill that had settled in the air. I smiled fondly—although I'd seen this particular Nord kill several Imperials, some Frostbite Spiders, and an aggravated bear, he looked strangely harmless when asleep. I shook my head and stood, now wasn't the time to think about how Ralof look while sleeping.

I walked over to the place where my armor hung and pulled on the gear. The blood stain was gone from the heart and sewed together neatly. The trousers had also been fixed from the slash marks that bear had left. The creaking of the bed stole my attention and I looked back to Ralof's bed. He hadn't woken up, but he seemed to be shivering rather violently. His armor hung by the wash bin, still wet, so I guessed that he'd gone to bed without clothes. I sighed, the thought that a Nord should be used to cold weather crossing my mind, before I took the blanket off my own bed and draped it across his body. It took a moment for Ralof to stop shaking and he unconsciously burrowed himself deeper into the sheets. I stifled a laugh and walked towards the door, walking out into the cold and knocking my boots against the ground.

It was going to be a long walk to Whiterun.

I approached the grand double doors of Dragonsreach. The guards didn't try to stop be when I entered, but I stopped when I opened the doors to the sound of an argument going on between the Jarl and some of the people surrounding his throne. I walked up without fear, not caring about what this man had to say about my armor (I'd gotten several jeers from the guards on my way in, but no comments…yet) or my ruffled appearance.

"Stop!" The Jarl's housecarl stops me, pointing a rather dangerous-looking sword at me. "State your business with the Jarl of Whiterun!"

I looked down at the tip of her blade passively, lowering the point from my line of vision with the tip of my index finger, "I've been told to give this message to the Jarl directly."

"Whatever you can say to the Jarl, you can say to me."

This Dunmer was beginning to get on my last nerve. I could feel my upper lip curling in a way that I knew would expose my feline fangs if I let myself get out of control. I suppose the Jarl noticed my annoyance and called off his housecarl.

"It's okay, Irileth, I want to hear what he has to say."

I didn't cast the woman another glance and walked past her, stopping when I was in front of the Jarl's throne. The man had an annoyingly relaxed posture, and I had the sudden urge to draw a weapon and attack him to teach him not to be so comfortable in the presence of strangers.

I didn't, but I did feel my nose twitch slightly.

"There has been a dragon attack on Helgen," I said with no emotion, my arms tense with the chance of an attack. This was enemy territory. It wasn't right—I wasn't safe here, I could sense it in the blood of those around me. I wasn't welcome.

The Jarl seemed to snap at this, spouting words at the man standing to his right side. I ignored the conversation until another question was directed at me.

"Where did you hear this from?" The Jarl asked. I suppose I should've been listening, as distrust had settled in the Nord's expression.

"Oh you know," I rolled my eyes. "I had a good view of the dragon when I was being burned alive at my own execution."

"Execution?" The Jarl asked. "You're a rebel?"

"No," I replied. "I wasn't at first. But the Imperials don't know the difference between a rebel and a refugee, so I decided to make it easier on their narrow minds and be both. I was _near_ the border hunting Elk and I was categorized as a rebel because I was so _obviously _a part of the Stormcloaks those Imperials were taking into custody, though I lacked the weaponry, heritage and proper armor to do much rebelling."

The Jarl didn't reply, but just set his lips into a straight line that betrayed his aggravation.

"Riverwood requests protection. They're in the most immediate danger of the dragon and don't have anyone to keep it from slaughtering everything in its path."

"Irileth," The Jarl said. "Dispatch some men to Riverwood at once."

"As you wish, my Jarl."

I smiled and turned away from the Jarl, walking down the steps and passing the extravagant dining table set out. There were many dishes sitting on it that had gone cold already, and that made me angry.

"You're disgusting," I hissed, my eyes snapping to the Jarl, whose own eyes had gone to mine.

"Excuse me?" He said, obviously offended by my insult.

"You're going to let this food rot here? You sit there in your godly throne while some people are starving. You don't even have the sense to eat what you're given and be thankful for it. You dare even be relaxed in the presence of a stranger who could very well take your life!"

"What if your point?" The Jarl asked through gritting teeth.

My hand had slipped into my armor while I was speaking and I gripped a throwing knife. It left my hands and flew through the air. A look of fear crossed the Jarl's face before the knife stuck in his throne, just to the right of his ear.

"My point is that you shouldn't take those things for granted when they can so easily be removed. I'll gladly take on any men you send to me for my death. At least I'll know I didn't take anything for granted."

With that, I left the shocked Jarl and his Steward to their business. Irileth entered just as I left, and asked what had happened. I could see her face when she noticed the knife that could've gone into her precious Jarl's skull had I been the murdering type. None of the guards acted, as their leader had not given them any direction.

I could only think that if it had been my Jarl that had nearly been injured, I would have killed the criminal before my Jarl could take a breath to scream. Perhaps I was the murdering type after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Pyrophobia**

As I left Whiterun, I turned away from the trail leading back to Riverwood and stalked into the expansive fields and tall grass. I stabbed an Elk as it fled from a wolf further in, then made quick work of the wolf. I skinned both the animals with practiced ease and cut the meat from the fat and bone. The wolf was skinny, but it provided nice hide and would be useful for leather. The Elk had broken its antlers sometime in the past and had rendered them useless, so I didn't bother cutting them off.

I shouldn't have been as angry as I was, but it seemed to cloud my mind and block out anything else. I'd always been annoyed by someone wasting food—the occasional travelers that threw half-eaten supplies from their caravans, those Nords that had almost disposed of those cheap Meads, and finally the Jarl, who had left food to the buzzards and hadn't seemed to have touched a bite of it.

I had felt the unbearable urge to teach him how quickly these things can be taken away. Drought and famine can swoop down at any time—especially with the war and the sudden dragon plague. Death comes swiftly after starvation. I'd learned not to take whatever I had for granted from the village. People had died in my arms before, my mother being one of them.

Maybe that was the reason I felt so strongly about not wasting food. My own mother had died from not having enough, and the Jarl was just throwing his away. That would explain the rage, but not the death threat. It was too late that I realized I was probably going to be arrested the moment I returned to Whiterun. If I ever did. I hadn't been in Whiterun for very long, but I had a feeling that throwing a knife at the Jarl was a big no-no.

As I continued my walk, I noticed that I'd come very close to a ruined guard tower that over-looked the plains that surrounded Whiterun. My breath caught at the sight of small fires, but they seemed to be surrounded by dirt, so it was unlikely they would spread. Despite this, I was careful to distance myself from the tower, too traumatized by the burning I'd received from the first dragon to even risk being near a flame. Gerdur hadn't even lit a fire in the house until I'd fallen asleep, and it was always out before I woke up.

I turned sharply when I heard footsteps in the grass and I saw several Whiterun guards and the housecarl, Irileth, marching across the plain. Fuck.

"You there!" Irileth shouted as I tried to figure out where to hide. If it had been a forest, even a marsh, I could've hidden somewhere. "You are going to help us track down this dragon, understand?"

Dragon? I promptly collapsed to my knees and started praying to all nine of the Divines, "Mara, Akatosh, Arkay, Dibella, Julianos, Kynareth, Stendarr, Zenithar, Talos! Anything but a dragon!"

"Get up!" Irileth demanded, approaching me and pulling me up by the collar of my armor. She seemed to have ignored the prayer to Talos, or possibly have expected since I pretty much admitted to being a Stormcloak in the Jarl's presence. She just shoved me towards the ruined tower and my heart sunk.

A dragon had been there. With my luck, it could turn out to be the same dragon from my execution—not that I'd gotten a good enough look at the hellish beast to recognize it (excuse me, but I was too busy not decomposing while conscious), but I feared it might recognize me.

Before I really knew what was going on, I had a guard-issued bow and one-handed axe shoved at me. The quiver felt heavier than the one I'd had for hunting, and the bow string was too tight for my comfort, and I'd never used an axe unless you counted Ralof and I in the cave, when we'd fought off the Imperials—I really didn't considering I'd picked up one Imperial's bow and quiver and used it. I must've left it at Gerdur's, or possibly dropped it while being half-carried to Riverwood.

I did my best not to pass out as I waited in silence. Irileth and her guards had gone in search of survivors and I waited by the half-crumbled arch. How was I going to face the dragon? I was so frightened by my first experience with one, I couldn't even see a flame without feeling the distant burn from my execution, my flesh slowly crumbling from my bones as it died off and peeled.

I shuddered, trying to steer my thoughts from fire, when I heard the screech. It was just as I remember it, but had twice the horrifying effect. I hid under the arch and started shaking, the hot tears that rolled down my face only reminding me more of the dragon's inferno. The ground shook violently and I felt something breathing on me. I turned, only to be met with the dragon's head. If I were any more insane than I already was, I would've believed that it was laughing at my tears.

I scrambled to flee the beast's path, but was blown forward by a sudden current. Dragons, apparently, had a very powerful breath. I landed hard on the ground and lifted my head. Everyone seemed to be trying to kill the dragon, but it didn't seem interested in their arrows and swords. Its eyes were focused on me.

It may have been childish, but I so wished for my mother to be here. At the same time, I was happy she was dead at this instance. I wanted her comfort, but I didn't want her to be in the dragon's path, either. Perhaps Ralof, who knew how to fight—but I realized that if I was forced to want one person to be standing in front of this beast, it was exactly who was standing here.

I wouldn't wish a dragon's locked gaze on my worst enemy.

My body seemed to recognize the situation from my years of hunting and, by the time my mind had caught up, I already had an arrow pulled back in my bow, aimed right at the dragon's soft eye lids. The arrow flew without my permission, burrowing itself in the dragon's eye and making it shriek again. It thrashed around, completely destroying the arch and blasting fire into the air. I moved without thinking, jumping onto the injured beast's neck and making my way to its head. Almost effortlessly, I dug my axe into its skull, watching as it stopped moving before its good eye rolled back to look at me and it fell limp.

There was silence as I removed my axe from the dragon's skull, and picked off the good scales from its hide. Almost instantly, after I'd gathered my last scale, its skin began melting away until there was nothing but bone left. I fixed my eyes on some that would sell greatly at a local shop, but stopped. A wind was surrounding me, colors of all sorts that wove themselves in and out of my flesh. There was a feeling of rightness, as if I'd been born just to have this feeling. As if the only purpose in my life was to kill these monsters and feel _just like this_.

There was a murmur of excitement among Irileth's men until she turned and snapped at them.

"Quite, the lot of you!" She went ignored, the group of guards approaching me and forming a circle. The colorful wind had disappeared, and I now felt stronger, somehow. Like killing that dragon had been so natural, it had made my mind and body more…able.

"You just survived a Shout."

"You absorbed its soul!"

"Are you the Dragonborn?"

The last question made the men all go silent, before bursting with excitement. They repeated the question, as if I knew the answer any more than they did. They crowded even closer until Irileth pushed them apart.

"I don't care about any of this 'Dragonborn' nonsense! All I see here is a dead dragon and the man who killed it—nothing more, nothing less."

In a strange way, I was thankful for Irileth's apathetic attitude towards my apparent soul-capturing abilities. For some reason, it felt as if this should be more private—that I should be able to do this without an audience. Without saying anther word, I turned and walked away, picking up the bones from the dragon and stuffing them in my pack. Some, I was forced to carry, but it was only a short walk to Whiterun from where I stood in the plain.

I wanted to badly to be back home.

I arrived at Riverwood hours later, tired and numb and just…I'm not sure. I just wanted to sleep, but I knew deep down I wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon. It was horrible to be as tired as I was and live with the knowledge you won't be dreaming.

Ralof stood just off of the town's entrance, having changed clothes to seem like less of a Stormcloak threat and more of just a normal citizen. He approached me as I walked towards him and, wordlessly, he put a hand on my shoulder. My frame shook and I let out a sob, involuntarily.

Dammit, men didn't cry! They especially didn't cry without reason, and not in the arms of their friends. Or was this the safest place to shed my tears?

It didn't matter. I found myself being hugged by the blonde Nord, his eyes facing the same direction they had been before. I allowed myself to cry freely, even if I didn't know why. Because of the dragon? The Jarl's wasteful nature? The strange wind and assumptions by Irileth's men?

I pulled apart after a few minutes, rubbing my eyes until they felt raw and dry. We walked in silence to Gerdur's house and Ralof forced me to sit at the table by the fireplace. There was a warm flame there, and I found myself shaking again, thinking of what would happen to this wholly-wooden house if that flame were to get out of control.

Ralof saw my shaking and quickly extinguished the fire. His apologies fell on deaf ears as I turned away from the empty fireplace and put my head on the table, resting on my arms. I was so tired, but my eyes refused to get heavy and give me peace.

"Do you want something to eat?" Ralof asked.

"I killed a dragon," I said suddenly, tracing patterns into the wood with my index finger. Ralof's eyes widened and he sat down in front of me, quietly requesting details. I spilled the entire story—the Jarl's annoying and wasteful habits, my hunting, the ruined tower, Irileth's quest to kill the dragon that had destroyed the tower, the dragon remaining fixated on me the entire time, my own ability to somehow overcome conscious unwillingness and killing the dragon, the strange winds, and Irileth's men's proclamations that I must be what they called "Dragonborn".

"Wait," Ralof said. "They called you Dragonborn?"

"Yes. I'm not quite sure what it means. It sounds familiar, but I can't remember where I could've possibly heard it from."

"It's a legend, just like dragons were up until the execution. It's supposed to be a mortal who is favored by the gods and given the soul of a dragon. It's said that they are the only ones truly able to kill a dragon and have it stay dead. They absorb a dragon's soul and use it to Shout, and speak in the dragon's tongue."

"That explains…The wind. But I haven't felt as if I could speak in a dragon's voice."

Ralof tilted his head, "How _do_ you feel?"

"Tired," I replied. "But I can't fall asleep. It's…bothersome."

"Perhaps it's just the excitement. You just killed a ferocious dragon, after all. You might need to wait for the feeling to wear off before you sleep."

"Or I could get a sleeping draught. But that won't help much, since I'd sleep through tomorrow as well. They always affected me strongly."

"I'll keep that in mind," I didn't quite like the malevolent smile on Ralof's face, but I settled with an insulting hand gesture in place of a retort. "Now, do you feel like you can eat? You haven't had a meal all day."

"Yes," I was starving, in fact, but hadn't noticed. I handed over the Elk meat and Ralof set to cooking it, adding a nice broth from some his sister already had. I waited patiently as he filled two bowls with the Elk meat stew and handed me one, placing the other in front of himself. I ate slowly, not wanting to rush into it and become sick. Ralof didn't touch his and, when I finished mine, he gave me the other bowl. I made quick work of that, as well, and leaned my head on the table.

An few hours passed as Ralof and I talked with each other. Eventually, my eyes finally got heavy and I felt myself slip into unconsciousness.

_Then I was in front of my childhood home. The little cottage, built from stones, stood proudly before me. Father was kneeling on the front steps, his arms open wide and his fur looking especially soft and welcoming. I ran to him, feeling myself enveloped in my father's warmth. He brought me into the cottage and I heard Manna singing. She took me into her arms and settled me on my bed, singing a lullaby._

"_Divine gift to me,  
>Just the way you are.<br>A beautiful child,  
>From a distant star…"<em>

_Manna was fading, her face thinning away until just her skull remained. Her voice, as quiet as it was, continued singing._

"_You are so sweet and pure,  
>Just the way you are.<br>Manna's precious jewel,  
>Daddy's rising star…<br>You're the Divine's gift to me."_

_Suddenly, it was no longer Manna's voice, but the piercing shriek of a dragon. I scrambled away, curling up upon myself and weeping. Manna was dying, and I could hear Daddy's voice calling for me, to be the man of the house and take care of my mother as he was dragged away by Imperials._

_Then the house was on fire. But our cottage hadn't caught fire…Had it? This was wrong. Very wrong. _

"_Godrael? Goddy?"_

I slammed into the floor, groaning and still half-asleep. The dream was over, and I felt slightly more secure than I had. It took me a moment to realize that it was Ralof calling my name, having pulled the sheets from my bed and sending me to the floor.

"You looked like you were having a nightmare," He muttered, helping me up and into the bed. Night had fallen and Gerdur and her family were all asleep in their own beds. They seemed to have missed my unconscious episode.

"I was. It was awful."

"Well, it's over now. You know none of it's real. Maybe we should get to bed before we wake the others."

If only Ralof had known that my nightmare had been real. My mother haunted me with her tale of how the Divines sent me to her. My father cursed me by telling a child how to be a man. The dragon, most of all, followed me everywhere, all too real for me to find peace in sleep.

I laid there until the sun rose, cursed by those I loved and followed lovingly by that which I hated the most.

**END**

**Note: My friend told me it was a little ironic that Godrael was praying to Akatosh, while he had a horrible phobia of dragons and fire. I laughed, then felt bad, then laughed again. Now I need sleep.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Pyrophobia**

_Ralof_

I watched in silence as Godrael crept through the trees. An Elk stood, unaware, below him. The dumb animal was plump and meaty, but very fast. Its antlers were in perfect condition, even though its hide had gotten a nasty scar from something in the past. As Godrael would say, leather isn't made to look pretty, it's made to protect your sorry ass from another's sword.

Even if you didn't know him, by the way he effortlessly jumped from one branch to another without the Elk even twitching an ear, you could tell he was part Khajiit. Nords just didn't move that gracefully, nor did we possess such lithe figures. If we did, I admitted, we'd probably freeze. But Godrael seemed just fine, dressed in a plain shirt and trousers he fashioned himself from a wolf hide. I'd tried to insist he wear his new armor (made from dragon's hide, and decorated with the beast's scales) but he'd only said that an Elk wasn't worth that kind of protection.

As soon as Godrael was over the fat creature, he dropped down. In the split second it took for him to land on its back, its head snapped up. Godrael worked too quickly for my eyes to follow, and had already broken its neck by the time my brain caught up. I joined him in skinning the hide and cutting the meat, leaving a carcass of bone, fat and organs.

We went home with the bounty, Godrael cooking some of the meat for our lunch and preserving the rest with salt and sticking it in a pan of snow. He commented on how we could preserve food for longer than his village could, since if we put it outside without heat, it would freeze on its own. We laughed and left for the blacksmith, who had told Godrael upon his first visit (seeing him make the dragon's hide armor) that he could use his forge any time, if he shared the leather. He started working the hide into leather, talking with me while he worked.

Just as he was about to finish the leather, the door connecting the main house to the forge opened, and someone walked out. I didn't look, but I could guess who it is by Godrael's tense shoulders and grim expression.

"Hadvar."

"Godrael."

I didn't speak, just sat by Godrael and waited for him to finish the leather. He'd stopped working on it and had his hands clenched in his lap.

"Stormcloak scum," Hadvar hissed, though he knew as well as I do that he couldn't prove either of us were Stormcloaks, especially Godrael. Any documentation of our capture with Ulfric was destroyed along with Helgen, and Godrael would've been marked down as a refugee illegally crossing the border, anyway.

"Imperial bastard," Godrael said, going back to working the leather. "I forgot to thank your superiors for imprisoning my father and killing my mother. I so enjoyed watching her starve in my arms."

"Perhaps if he hadn't been a rebel—"

"You mean a Khajiit?" Godrael interrupted, not looking at Hadvar. "Letting his family worship who they wished and doing no harm himself? Being in Skyrim, _legally_, since he married a native? Oh yes, he was a damned dirty rebel."

Hadvar didn't reply with another comment on rebels, but cleared his throat, "There was a delivery for you. Lucan brought it because you weren't at Gerdur's house. It's on the porch."

With that he disappeared into his uncle's house, and Godrael spared a little smile.

"Why are you smiling?" I asked.

"Am I the only one who thinks that's funny? He knows that the Imperials did wrong by my family by imprisoning my father—he just tries to use the Stormcloaks against me."

"It's not working very well."

"Which is why I find it funny. I'm done with this, I'll give some to Alvor and pick up the package. Who sends me things, anyway?"

On the way to the porch, Godrael joked about how the ghosts of the Imperials he killed sent him a cursed suit of armor. I laughed, but stopped when Alvor answered the door. The two traded pleasantries and Godrael gave him the tougher pieces of leather and kept the thinner ones for himself. He said he planned on making some armor for Frodnar, since he was going to become a man soon.

"That sounds like a good idea," Alvor said. "If you have the time, I wouldn't mind you making some for my daughter, also. But my wife doesn't need to know about it. Dorthe often pretends she's a warrior fighting off monsters and Sigrid thinks it's unbecoming of a lady."

Godrael laughed, "I wouldn't mind at all. Not to worry about Sigrid, I didn't plan on telling Gerdur either."

For some reason that I would never understand, Godrael had such a way with people. Alvor was serious, dark and, to be truthful, a bit scary. Until Godrael spoke to him, I'd never even seen the man smile. Godrael had somehow found a way to even get him to joke around, becoming friends with him despite Alvor supporting the Imperials and knowing Godrael planned on joining the Stormcloak's side of the fight.

Alvor went back in his house and Godrael looked around the porch. There was an oblong crate with a note attached, _To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael_. He knelt by the crate and opened the top, a grin spreading across his face when he saw its contents.

"It's an axe!" Godrael said, gripping the wrapped handle of the weapon and pulling it from the crate. It was a large, two-handed, double-headed war axe. Godrael didn't seem to have any trouble with the weight and rested it on his shoulder.

"When are you ever going to use that?" I asked, laughing slightly. "I bet the Elk would run faster if they saw you coming at them with that thing."

Godrael laughed and bent down to take the note, "It seems I've been promoted from attempted assassin to Thane," He continued reading the note in a ridiculously regal voice. "_To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael. It has come to the Jarl's attention of your dragon slaying abilities and, in hopes that you will help the fair city of Whiterun again, he has dubbed you Thane of Whiterun, appointing the soldier, Lydia, to be your housecarl. You've also been given permission to purchase property in Whiterun and all crimes committed there have been pardoned. Many thanks, Jarl Balgruuf and his court._"

Godrael frowned, all humor gone from his face, as he read over the letter a second, then a third time.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"They want me to slay dragons for them," He said quietly, looking at the axe as if it was tainted. "They even engraved a dragon on the axe. Bastards."

"What makes you think they want you to slay dragons?" I asked, reaching for the letter. He gave it to me, setting the axe back in the crate.

"It says that I've been brought to the Jarl's attention for my dragon slaying abilities. This wasn't to thank me for killing the one dragon, it's to bribe me to kill more."

I could see his point. The axe was a good bribe, I could see it in the way Godrael stared at it—as if being forced to give back the tainted weapon felt like having his heart ripped from him.

"It's a beautiful axe…" He said, kneeling and stroking the blade. "I wish the Jarl would've just wrote that it was for slaying the damned dragon and been done with it. I might've even helped with a few considering the gift—if it wasn't just a fluke the first time, that it, and I'm able to kill it without thinking too much again. But not it's…"

I hated seeing Godrael so sad. It was a petty sadness, but understandable. Godrael hadn't had any luxuries in life after his mother's exile and death—unless you counted the cheap Mead he was sold by the Nords, but it was most likely expired, so I didn't. Of course he would fawn over something so expensive and beautiful that he had received by doing something he'd admitted felt natural. It was similar to being given gifts for breathing. And now he was being forced by himself to return it because it was tainted with bribery.

"Wait," I said. I took a piece of coal from Godrael's pocket and scribbled down words on the fine, white parchment before handing it back. "Read it."

"_To the Thane of Whiterun, Godrael. We commend you for slaying the dragon and, in hopes that we can repay you the Jarl, has dubbed you Thane of Whiterun, appointing the soldier, Lydia, to be your housecarl. You've also been given permission to purchase property in Whiterun and all crimes committed there have been pardoned. Many thanks, Jarl Balgruuf and his court._"

Godrael stared at the paper, my own scrawl no doubt looking pathetic next to the Steward's careful handwriting, before reading it over again. There was a small smile before he started laughing hysterically.

"I know my handwriting isn't the best, but there's no need to laugh at me," I said, feigning an insulted expression.

Godrael was now laughing so hard he couldn't stand on his own and had to lean again my shoulder, beating my back with his fist and his shoulders shaking. I felt something soak through my shirt. Dear Divines, I'd made him laugh so hard he was _crying_!

"I've made the Thane of Whiterun cry! Just what would Lydia think, Godrael?"

He almost floored at that, now making no sound and his shoulders shaking with muted laughter. Each time he sucked in a breath, he sounded positively asthmatic. By the time he calmed down, his own difficulty breathing seemed extremely funny, making him laugh even more. Eventually, I calmed him down enough that he just chortled under his breath, coughing to cover the chuckles—albeit poorly.

"Do you think you can keep the axe?" I asked, picking up the weapon. I had a bit more trouble with it than Godrael had, but that was mainly because of an arrow injury I'd received after he'd collapsed in Helgen. I'd spared him the detail then, and I did now, just moving the handle over to him. He lifted it easily, resting it on his shoulder and admiring the professionally done wrapping and the details of the blade.

"It's a lovely weapon. How do you think it would look with blood on it?"

That made me laugh almost as hard as he'd been laughing. I'd half-expected him to say "Imperial blood", but it would be unwise since we're still on Alvor's porch. They were friends, but even the best of friends have lines that shouldn't be crossed. Alvor knew that Godrael had killed Imperials, but knowing and being told are two different things.

"Beautiful. Blades never look as good as they do with gore on them," That makes me think of how Godrael looked after killing the bear. His face was still burnt then, but it was easy to imagine his healed one in the place of the damaged one. Blood on his cheek, a grin on his lips, an easy stance as he held up the bear skin proudly. He'd never killed a bear before—they were too rare in Cyrodiil when you were that close to the border—and he couldn't wait to taste the meat. The bear was fat and had just stored up for the winter, which would've made pretty good meat. But he'd been tired, and I'd just salted the meat I could fit in a pack and we'd moved on, Godrael hanging onto that hide even when he'd collapsed, gripping it unconsciously like a childhood blanket.

I snapped out of the thoughts when I see Godrael smiling at me.

"Thanks, Ralof," He said. He kicked the lid back over the crate and turned away. "I suppose I should go thank Lucan for delivering it and everything."

We walked to the Riverwood Trader in companionable silence. Godrael had strapped the axe to his back, admiring the axe head that hung between us every so often. I was suddenly happy I'd had that idea to get him to keep the axe—he seemed so happy with it, and it was painful to see that hurt puppy expression on his face.

Upon arriving at the Trader, Camilla informed us that her brother was out. We didn't ask why—it wasn't any of our business—but Godrael fell into a conversation with her. I'd made an effort at first to keep Godrael away from her, since Camilla is known to have many suitors, and enjoys the attention from them very much. She, true to her reputation, tried to coerce Godrael in a proposal of marriage, but ended up talking with him about random things. Eventually it became clear that, when confronted with the proposal, he would bring up something unrelated. They became fast friends after that.

As Godrael laughed, I realized that I wanted, very badly, for him to always be this happy. Godrael's face, posture, and personality all called for constant happiness, and it always seemed to break him when he was sad. He wasn't created to be sadness, he was _made_ to be happy.

I resolved right then, that I would do my best to make that possible.

Lucan running in and immediately beginning an argument with his sister over a stolen claw didn't help my mission in the least.


	7. Chapter 7

**Pyrophobia**

I'm not sure what exactly is off in Lucan's head, but he'd decided to hire muscle to take back his Golden Claw from the thief. The thief is a professional, obviously, if he knew something about the Claw that its owner didn't—a couple of morons stupid enough to head into Bleak Falls Barrow without the proper weaponry or armor or preparation for whatever in Oblivion might be up there certainly won't last long.

The brainless group came back missing three members and muttering on and on about the walking dead and purple fire. They didn't even accept the payment for their troubles, just wandered into the forest, talking like crazy men. I hadn't seen them since, but I knew that whenever some insane person in my village went into the forest, they made a nice meal for the local predators.

It took me three days to prepare for the trip up to the Barrow, gathering potions and fixing my best armor (dragon's hide). I didn't want to come out of this like the poor souls Lucan hired, so I took extra precautions with chinks in my armor and weak points in my weapons. To get the Claw back before the thief booked it out of the Barrow, there wasn't much room for error or time to waste.

"I want to come with you," Ralof said as I sheathed my dagger under my sleeve and strapped my axe to my back. "It isn't safe. You just fought a bloody dragon, and you've only just healed from your burns."

"I was healed a week ago," I replied, lacing up my boots. "And you're not coming. You need to be here for your sister. She's against me going all together, I need someone here to keep her calm while I'm gone so she won't send anyone after me."

"What about Hod?"

"He'll just submit to her will and get drunk. And don't tell me he won't because he's done it more than once at my expense."

"Fine," He relented, looking away. Ralof had never been very good at being upset—he just looked really funny when he tried to pout, and it made me laugh my ass off.

I'm not keeping Ralof here for his own good, or even to keep Gerdur calm. Really, it's for my benefit and survival. I can't guarantee I'll come back from the Barrows, and if I brought Ralof, he'd most likely kill himself in an attempt to save my life. I'm keeping him here to keep him safe and remind me what's back home. If he dies, I have nothing to return to. In the village, I stayed alive to keep Jasha and Lotus and Citin alive and well-fed. Now, Ralof was the only thing keeping me from jumping into a river.

My parents are dead, returning to my village would kill me, and I have no other friends to speak of. Ralof is my last hope of coming back from the Barrow.

"You can sit in the corner and cry about it after you return my other knife, Ralof."

The Nord glared, taking an Elven dagger out of his boot and handing it to me, "You shouldn't be using dirty Mer weapons anyway."

"They're of good quality," I defended with a shrug, strapping the dagger to my thigh. "Plus, I got this dagger off of one of those parties of Elves that's always wandering about and killing those who worship Talos."

"The Thalmor patrols?"

"Yes, them. When they walked by, I shouted, 'Hail Talos, the ninth Divine!' That got their attention. The leader tried to stab me but I slit her throat before she could even grab the dagger. I looted it off of her and killed her guards when they attacked."

Ralof was trying not to laugh, since he really didn't see the Thalmor patrols as people anymore. It was funny that I'd provoked them in such a way, really funny that the leader had thought she could get past me with a little dagger, and hilarious that I killed two elves with their own kinsmen's knife.

"You aren't supposed to provoke the Thalmor, Godrael," Ralof said, still laughing. "They might come after you now."

I shrugged again, straightening my armor, "Who's going to tell? I killed them before they could write my name on their little list—why is everyone involved with the Empire have a list anyway?—and they're dead. Even if they were found, no one could know it was me. The only people who saw me even close to there was a band of Khajiit, and they aren't going to send an assassin because of a dead group of Elves."

"True," Ralof said.

Gerdur walked over to us and handed me a set of lock picks, "Just in case." She said, looking at me sadly.

"Gerdur, I'm going to be fine. I battled a dragon, for Divine's sake! A stupid thief won't be any challenge."

"I just don't want to have to worry about you coming back like…"

_Like the hired hands of Lucan's_. I put my hand on her shoulder, "I won't. I have to leave now."

"You'll come back, right Uncle Godrael?" Frodnar asked from the table, a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Right."

"And you'll teach me how to fire a bow, right?"

I looked at Hod, who smiled, then at Gerdur, who shrugged, "You'll teach him anyway."

"Right. After I come back, I'll even make you your own bow."

Gerdur hugged me again before pushing me out the door. I heard Ralof shout that if I didn't come back he'd hunt me down in Sovngarde and bash me with his shield for the rest of eternity. Hod grunted a goodbye and Frodnar just whined when his mother said, "_No_, you can't _not_ go to the bridge with him."

The journey was long for the Barrows being just across the river and up the mountain, but I made it by midday. The entrance was old and rusted, and the dead bodies of bandits littered the ground. I opened the door slowly, seeing several dead Skeevers and some skulls. A dead body laid near a bandit camp inside the chamber, the inhabitants going so far as to make a fire and lay out bed rolls.

For a moment I was suspicious that they might have an ambush waiting for anyone exploring the Barrow, but when I heard how loudly they talked and how freely they walked around, I decided they might just be idiots. Plus, I'd seen a Frost Troll not too far away during my trek up the mountain. No one in their right mind would make this much noise in Frost Troll territory, even if they had protection.

I snuck in quietly, thanking my father's ancestors for being so stealthy, and looted a few of the bandit's dead bodies. They had some coin and valuable potions, though I let the weapons be. I didn't need the sound of a blade clinking to alert my presence.

The male bandit had stopped laughing drunkenly and I stopped, fearing I'd been caught, when he belched.

"I need to piss," He muttered, standing shakily and waddling into the shadows. The woman didn't think anything of it and continued laughing to herself obnoxiously. The man hummed as he relieved himself and I snuck up behind him, pulling the dagger from my sleeve.

A knife was held to my throat.

"You should've never come here," A sickening voice whispered in my ear. I was tossed to the ground and the man and woman laughed, clapping like mentally challenged Horkers. I lifted my head weakly to find a dark-haired man standing over me. He was dressed in dark clothing and had soot on his face, which had made him hard to spot in the shadows. He seemed to be a Nord, but it was hard to tell. Imperials and Nords looked the same in the dark.

The man kneeled down and dug his knee into my ribs. I groaned and he grabbed my face, roughly rubbing off the war paint Frodnar had given me yesterday upon hearing of my upcoming quest, "Such a pretty one, you are. You look like a Nord, but you must be a half-breed. Anika, Holind, go deeper into the cave. This little bastard might've brought company like the last morons from Riverwood."

The drunkards stumbled down into the passage, deeper into the Barrow. The man grinned down at me and clamped a hand over my mouth, "Don't want the dirty half-breed telling his back-up he needs help, now do we?"

It's always a shock when you realize you're going to die. Truthfully, I would've preferred to die in anywhere else but Bleak Falls Barrow. In a strange way, it reminded me of home—perhaps because my house was so near it. I was reminded of my mother and father, and of Ralof and his family, who expected me back sometime in the morning. I would never return to them. I would never teach Frodnar to shoot, or keep my promise to Alvor and make the armor for his little girl. I would never see Ralof laugh again, or see Gerdur get mad when I drank too much mead with her husband and brother. I would never hunt again.

The only consolation was death. Peace. Being with my family again in the afterlife.

I felt the man's dagger dig into my arm and cried out. He wasn't aiming to kill me with that, he was just drawing into my arm, like a butcher carving a pig for meat. When he had finished with the agonizing cutting, I saw he'd marked a "V" into my bicep.

"V is for victim, but you probably already knew that," He said, tapping the bloodied tip of his knife to the point of my nose playfully.

I had, actually. Gerdur had told me about a hired assassin that came highly recommended to accompany someone on a dangerous pilgrimage or go after thieves and murderers. He wasn't picky, killing a thief one day and being hired by another the next. Just two things remained the same about him: one was that his employers were always satisfied, and the other was the "V" he carved into the bodies of his victims when they were killed. Sometimes, if it wasn't a time-related venture, he would play with the carving for hours and torture the victim before killing them.

He was insane.

"I wouldn't touch such a pretty face like yours," He said, though I found it hard to take that as a compliment. "Maybe I'll just cut up the rest of you. Though, you look like you could be good for other things, too."

The trouble with professional criminals in Skyrim is that they're well known, so they're unlikely to be persecuted unless they're in a city while committing a crime (and they're never in cities), and there aren't many qualms about sexuality in Skyrim. It isn't rare to see children that are coming of age planning a future with either sex as a partner. The male-female marriage is only the most common because of child bearing.

This man was raised in Skyrim. He had no qualms with having sex with another man. He's a criminal, so I doubt he'd have a problem with forcing me. At this rate, I was hoping he was a necrophiliac and I wouldn't have to be alive for it. I wasn't going to Sovngarde dying this way, so what was the point of caring what happened to my body after I was dead?

"Let's see what's under this fancy armor of yours," He muttered to himself, removing his right knee from my chest only to place his left knee over my throat. He tugged off the chest section of my armor and poked my stomach with his blade. "A bit soft-skinned for a Nord, aren't you? I bet you're part High Elf. High Elves are pretty."

I hissed, insulted to be called such a thing, "I _kill_ High Elves for fun!" I spat, spurring him to press his knee cap harder on my wind pipe.

"Shut up. No one asked you to talk."

He continued to poke my belly until the knife dug into the space between my rubs, cutting the flesh and making me clench my jaw. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of my pain, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep my mouth shut.

There was a crash and something near the bandit's camp broke. The knife was removed from my flesh and the assassin stood. He looked around, his head held up like a dog sniffing for trouble. I bit back the word 'mutt' and kept quiet, unable to breathe properly for the moment and in too much pain from my wounds to move. I was losing blood, and I might pass out before he returned, if I was lucky.

I flinched when I felt him hold my shoulders and put my into an upright position, whimpering when the wound on my chest flared and bled.

"Shh," A voice that certainly didn't belong to the assassin said in my ear. "I'm going to help you, all right? Where's your axe?"

"I left it at the entrance to be quieter. I couldn't step lightly if that monstrosity was strapped to my back," I whispered, getting dizzier by the moment. I was set back on the ground and heard the sound of someone sneaking away. I felt the assassin's boot in my side a moment later, and he huffed.

"You're no fun if you die before I can fuck you, dammit," He growled, kicking me harder. I whimpered, feeling my ribs ache. Thankfully, one hadn't broken. Yet. The assassin grinned, stepping on my throat and pressing his heel into my wind pipe. I clawed at his ankle, trying desperately to breathe again, but he just pressed harder. I could feel my brain losing oxygen and my eyes rolled back.

A drop of blood hit me and I looked up. The blade of my axe was buried into the skull of the assassin and he was looking down at me, as if wondering how I'd done it, before he collapsed. I gasped when his foot fell from my neck and breathed greedily, putting a hand over the cut between my ribs.

"I've got it, I've got it," The voice whispered again, placing a gauze patch over the wound and taping it down. "You shouldn't have come alone, Godrael. It's dangerous up here."

My first thought was the Ralof had been stupid enough to follow me, and I would yell at him the moment I could see his face. Maybe slap him, if I really felt he deserved it. He was meant to stay home and remind me that I had something to return to, but now he'd given himself the opportunity to be killed. My eyes slowly cleared of the black spots as my breathing evened out and I looked back up at him, finding his features clearing. But, it wasn't Ralof leaning over me.

"…Hadvar?"

**END**

**Fun facts to know and tell, I'd actually had a hard time not typing the word 'Pyrophilia' when I first started this story. Now every time I actually type Pyrophobia right, I check to make sure it's not Pyrophilia. Because Goddy won't go near fire, let alone fuck it.**

**And this is LATE LATE LATE and I'm sorry, but I have a life.**

**GUYZ. GUYZ. IT'S TRUE. I'M SERIOUS. I HAVE A LIFE. JUST SHUT UP.**

**Stop laughing at me, dammit.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Pyrophobia**

Within the hour, Hadvar had me so-so healed and able to stand without falling again. I'd refused help constantly, hating his overly-caring tone and how he seemed to just want to help. He was treating me like a child, saying that he was too dangerous for 'someone like me' to come up to the Barrow alone.

"What do you mean 'someone like me'?" I hissed, flashing my fangs and narrowing my eyes. Hadvar's face looked horrified as he realized he'd said the wrong thing to the wrong person.

"Just…you're…not as strong as a full-Nord, Goddy," The nickname rolled off his tongue and I was on him in an instant, pinning his shoulders to the ground and hissing, curing at him in my father's language.

"Don't you _ever_ call me that again you scum," I snarled. "And don't you dare underestimate me. I let my guard down for one moment. If I hadn't, you wouldn't have needed to come to my rescue. If you ever patronize me like that again, you'll have your throat ripped out!"

Hadvar nodded frantically, looking fearfully at my fangs and feeling my claws dig into his shoulders. I glared one last time and let him up, not offering to help him stand when he remained sitting on the floor. He was a strong _full Nord_. He could get himself up from the floor.

"I'm going to come with you," Hadvar said, standing uneasily. "You need protection. That's not patronizing, it's a fact."

I hissed, "Fine. But only because you'll stalk me anyway. Give me back my axe. I'll have to wash the Imperial stink off of it before I use it again."

I washed the blood off of the axe, cleaning the wrapped grip thoroughly before I was satisfied, hefting it over my shoulder and holding it there with one hand. I motioned for him to continue into the cavern and he stepped into the passage first. I let him lead because if he were to find a trap of some sort, it would mean he'd be out of my hair and would die thinking he actually helped me somehow.

We ventured into the dusty rooms and I wasn't surprised to find unrest among the dead in such a place. The drunkards seemed to have gone too far and a group of Draugr. Hadvar seemed too shocked to see the cursed Nords devouring the bandits, but I'd seen far worse in my lifetime and simply went in to kill them. They were more difficult than game or bears, but nothing compared to a dragon.

I found that if I compared each battle I had to a dragon, it seemed much easily in comparison.

When the Draugr were dead, I heard a gurgling sound and looked around for another, only to see one of the bandits hadn't died yet. She seemed to be in a lot of pain, her eyes having lost the glazed look of intoxication and become sober and agonized. I leaned down, dropping my axe on the ground and taking her head in my hands.

"May the Nine bless you," I whispered, my hands moving quickly and snapping her neck. I closed her eyelids and set her head back on the ground, looting her and her partner's bodies for gold.

"That's good morals," Hadvar said coldly. "A mercy killing, a Divine's blessing, and then stealing from the dead. Is that a skill the Stormcloaks taught you?"

"My dead mother, actually," I said calmly. "You know, the one whose death was caused by the Imperials?"

We were quiet after that, not even speaking when another group of Draugr attacked. We just killed them silently, trying to avoid looking at each other. Unfortunately, Hadvar was smarter than I thought and threw a Draugr axe on anything that looked like a trap. They were always things I could've spotted and avoided on my own, but he always smirked like he'd saved my life. Maybe he hadn't seen the dagger on my thigh…? I think I could get away with stabbing him and blaming the undead.

"Wait," I said, stopping him. "Look at that."

We stumbled upon a large room with pots hanging from the ceiling just above pools of purple liquid. The Draugr in the room had heard us coming and attacked in the corridor, so it was empty save for Hadvar and I. What had those hired men said when they returned?

"Purple fire," I muttered. I ordered Hadvar to step back and took the knife from my other sleeve. I aimed carefully and threw it at the rope holding the pot over the floor. The pot fell and the purple liquid ignited, burning bright and hot. "It's best to let it all burn off. We don't know if it's caused by flame or impact."

Hadvar agreed, lending me his bow so I could knock all of the pots down. We climbed the steps, stopping every few minutes to wait for a fire to put itself out, and all but wandered around until we came to a hall. There were spider webs everywhere, so I took my axe and held it defensively.

"Frostbite Spiders," I muttered. "Damn creepy. Too many eyes."

I had to cut through a thick layer of web and stopped. We'd stumbled upon a nest. It was different from the one I'd seen in Helgen Keep, where it was a little larger than this, because there was no spider that I could see. Usually, the infantile spiders would attack you as soon as you approached their nest, but nothing moved.

"Help me! For the love of Mara, get me down from here before it comes back!"

I stepped forward, "Arvel? What in Oblivion?"

"You know him?"

Arvel looked up hopefully, "Godrael! Thank the Divines, you're here! Save me, it's coming back!" He looked up at the high ceiling and whimpered.

A large Frostbite descended from a web built high into the cavern. It landed in front of me and I hit it with my axe on instinct. It had already been injured, but I still didn't let it get near me unless I had my axe ready to swing. It fell once I got a hit to its head, and I resolved to clean the spider gunk off of my blade later.

"Hadvar," I said, seeing he was still standing near the entrance.

"You know a thief."

"You know a Stormcloak," I replied, moving forward to free Arvel. I started working at the webs, slowly but surely getting him out. "How'd you end up here, Arvel?"

"I stole something from a shop. The owners were so _stupid_, keeping a Golden Claw for decoration."

"You have the Golden Claw?" I asked calmly, sounding like I was making conversation. "Do you know what it does?"

"Not off the top of my head," I don't doubt that. Arvel was never that bright. "But I wrote it down in my journal. If I get good coin off of it, I'll give you some. Since we're partners and everything. What've you been up to all these years?"

"I've lived in a village near the border of Cyrodiil. Hunting. Fishing. You know, the whole deal."

"How's your mother?"

"Dead."

Arvel tsk'd, "Such a shame. She was a good woman. Your father still locked up?"

"They probably executed him, Arvel. It's been what…ten, eleven years? But yeah, if he isn't dead, still locked up."

"Damn shame."

"Hm."

I finished loosening the webs and Arvel fell. He grinned when I helped him up and pulled me into a hug, which I returned.

"Arvel, this is Hadvar. He's an Imperial bastard that followed me down here. Hadvar, this is Arvel. We knew each other as children."

"How?" Hadvar asked, seeming to not believe I knew a criminal.

"We were both refugees and my mother made friends with his mother. I taught him how to sneak, he taught me how to pick locks. Friendship."

"Yeah, you were always good at that. We'd better get moving, those eggs look suspicious."

Arvel was probably being paranoid, but we continued anyway. I hoped Hadvar was shocked enough to just stand there and eventually be devoured by baby spiders, but he followed. Arvel and I caught up while we walked. Apparently, he'd gotten into quite a bit of trouble after we parted ways and he ended up in jail a couple of times. A guy in jail gave him a book—he was insane, and had said it would protect Arvel from the ear mammoths—that talked about the Golden Claw. One thing led to another and he stole the claw from Lucan, and came here. His mother, apparently, was still in a refugee village near the mountains, but Arvel was slightly worried that a dragon might attack the settlement.

"By the way," He said. "Where'd you get that fancy axe?"

"I killed a dragon for the Jarl of Whiterun and he made me his Thane."

"You mean his bitch."

"The words are interchangeable."

We both laughed and Hadvar made a noise behind us. I didn't acknowledge him and just kept talking with Arvel.

"What did you find out about this place?"

"Well," He said, scratching his chin. "There's a special hall somewhere near here that has a puzzle door. The claw has the pattern that's needed to open it. As soon as I get that door open, I'll be able to find out what's so special about this place."

We eventually reached that door. I aided Arvel in opening it and pushing on. Hadvar continued to make disgruntled noises, but he was ignored. I started to tell Arvel about the drunkards in the entrance, and he sheepishly admitted that they were with him, before he got ahead of them, that is. When I got around to my attempted rape/homicide, his face drained.

"If I'd known that _you'd_ be here, I would've called him off," Arvel said.

"I know."

Arvel, despite his less than honest background, had never done a friend bad—unless they were never really a friend, that is, but we'd been partners since we were kids. He was loyal, which was a good quality in a criminal if you didn't want to be found floating face-down in a river. Arvel had, obviously, learned this early on. Any mention of betrayal I mentioned from my past, he scoffed at as if it were the only law that mattered anymore.

We stopped talking only to kill one of the residents of the crypt or to navigate treacherous bridges. When we came upon the main chamber, Arvel stopped me.

"Might be something valuable here, let's look around."

I searched around the raised platform with him, sniffing around the coffin to make sure nothing would pop up. Nothing smelled too living, so I continued to search. I looted the chest and walked over to the great stone wall. I heard Arvel climb onto the platform and start searching around, attempting to break into the coffin.

The closer I got to the wall, the less control I had over my own body. My legs had begun to move on their own, dragging me closer and closer to the carvings. They were meaningless slashes and lines, but I felt like they were something to read. Something that was to be understood for centuries to come. Something alive that had to be kept alive.

The lines in front of me glowed when I stopped, and I felt something hit my chest. I was breathless, unable to move as I heard wind rushing in my ears. I couldn't hear anything for what seemed like hours. Eventually, the wind subsided and I could hear. I turned to see that Arvel had stopped trying to work on the coffin and was staring at me.

"What was that?" He asked. I saw Hadvar entering the room, brought on by the noise from the wind.

"I'm not…Really sure."

There was a crack and Arvel backed away from the coffin as whatever was inside stirred. Too late did I realize that a large and powerful Draugr had hidden itself away. It threw a weapon and Arvel fell, blood pouring from the wound on his back. I ran to him, but he was already dead.

I wanted to stop and get his body somewhere safe, but the Draugr no longer had an interest in him. It stared at me for a few moments before it stumbled forward and let out a horrible, inhuman noise. I drew my axe and moved forward to meet it. I hit it in the neck, and it caught my hip with its sword. I repeatedly beat it with my axe without knowledge of what I was really doing. I just wanted it to die.

I felt the tip of the sword pierce my leg and inhaled. Without meaning to, or even really knowing what was going on, I spoke a work I'd never heard before, and it felt powerful.

"FUS—" A powerful blast of air came from my throat, and the Draugr fell, stumbling off of the platform and cracking its neck, severing its head from the rest of its body. It was dead.

"What was that?" Hadvar asked breathlessly.

"I'm getting really tired of that question."

Hadvar nodded, but didn't approach. I stood shakily, hissing when I felt the pain in my leg, and limped to where the Draugr had fallen. I looted the body for all it had, and found a strange tablet. I stuck it in my bag and stood again, walking to Arvel's corpse and kneeling beside it.

"Arvel, my friend," I said quietly, removing his bag and coin purse. "I'll see you in the afterlife."

"You're just going to take his money?" Hadvar asked. I didn't like the edge in his tone, as if I were below him.

"This was a deal Arvel and I made as children, you fucking idiot. If one of us dies, the other will take his possessions and do what he wishes with them. What's he going to do with them now? He's dead."

Hadvar didn't talk. I stood and walked away, finding the exit.

"If you're coming, I'd get a move on," I said, looking at the distant light that showed the outside world. I heard Hadvar move towards me, so I left the cave. The fresh air felt good and I felt the blood trickle down my thigh. I could get patched up at home, but I still remembered Hadvar's attitude in the beginning, and refused to show weakness. I didn't need a dim-witted Nord doting over me like a crazy mother.

Well, at least I didn't like it when Hadvar did it. He always made it seem like I was something to be pitied and coddled. Ralof made it seem like he was making me take help, forcing a meal into my hand and telling me that if I kicked him while he bandaged me I'd pay with blood. He never made me stay in bed more than a day or two, and always made me get up and move around the moment I could.

"I'm going home," I said stiffly. "No one is to know that you were with me. Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me. And so help me by the Divines if I hear you talking about Arvel to anyone with an ill tone I will slaughter you myself."

Hadvar seemed to get the message and sat down on a rock, waiting patiently for me to get a head start so we wouldn't enter town together.

"And thank you. I didn't want or need your help, but I accept that it happened. Just don't do it again."

With that, I turned away. I could feel Hadvar staring after me until I was out of his line of vision. I shot a few wolves and caught a deer for meat and some new leather. I'd promised Frodnar a new bow, so I found a flexible tree and broke off a branch. I would shape and carve it later, and bow string wasn't that hard to find. Gerdur would appreciate some plants to go with dinner, and Hod might like the special Mead that Arvel had given me…

I spent the rest of the night picking edible plants and skinning the animals. I didn't get into town until the sun rose, so I'd be on time. I also wanted the cut on my leg to at least clot before I went home and Ralof saw blood pouring. He'd probably be pissed enough when he saw the wound on my chest, rib cage, throat and face. Damned if I let him see the little cut.

The sky tinged pink and I threw a skinned deer hide over my shoulder and stuff the wolves into my pack. I suddenly wished I'd brought my game bag, but it would've been difficult to work with while I was escaping Draugr left and right. My axe hung on my back comfortably and I let a smile crawl over my face as I entered Riverwood. Ralof had been waiting for me, but had failed to stay awake, and was sitting in front of a tree near the entrance of the village, his chin resting on his chest and his eyes closed. I laughed into my hand and approached him, careful not to make a noise.

Ralof, as I've mentioned before, looked different in his sleep. His face was relaxed and he didn't look like he was constantly trying to keep himself controlled like he did when he was awake. He always looked so pressured and uncertain, but he wasn't at that moment.

I lifted my hand and ran it through his hair. It was a little rough, but not horribly so. His braid was loose and falling apart, so I gently pulled apart the hair and re-braided it. It looked cleaner, and Ralof hadn't felt me pulling on his hair at all. Ralof was a deep sleeper, apparently, and I filed that information away for later use.

The sun was rising and Ralof needed to get into a proper bed to sleep in before he hurt his back. I put his arm over my shoulder and lifted him up.

"Mmm…Goddy?"

I laughed, "Yeah, it's me."

Ralof leaned his head on my shoulder, "You actually came home on time for once…Gerdur was worried, and Hadvar's uncle came by saying he went off somewhere without telling anyone."

"I saw him on the road. He was just wandering around the mountains," I lied smoothly.

"I'll tell his uncle," Ralof yawned. "Did you get the claw."

I swallowed and pursed my lips, "Yes. I did."

"Not to be mentioned?" Ralof asked, still leaning on me and not even attempting to walk fully by himself.

"Not to be mentioned."

Ralof nodded and felt his braid, "You re-did it."

"I did. It was looking ratty."

Ralof laughed, "You're an ass."

"You're an ass."

"You're a piece of ass."

I stopped, blinked, and looked at him. He'd obviously realized what he'd said and covered his mouth.

"I-uh…" Ralof stuttered, standing on his own and looking down. His eyes were wide and he looked like he couldn't quite believe that he'd said that. "I didn't mean…"

"There's another way that can be taken?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. Ralof's face was bright cherry red and he was messing with the end of his shirt nervously.

"Could we forget I said that?" He asked meekly. I laughed and nodded.

"It never happened. To recap, you're an ass. Let's go home."

Ralof smiled and nodded, trailing behind me and offering to hold some of the game. I gave him the wolves and informed him they still needed to be gutted and skinned. He seemed to be relieved at the level of normalcy in my voice, but inside my mind, a single thought trampled over all others.

_Ralof thinks I'm a piece of ass. Fantastic._

And for once, not a single hint of sarcasm was found.

**END**

**Do people in Skyrim use the term "Piece of ass"? Do I care?**

**Well they do now. You're welcome. And the two last sentences are genuine, not sarcastic. It was brought to my attention that they might seem sarcastic, but Godrael sincerely enjoys the fact that Ralof finds him attractive. But he's a man. I want to make that clear.**

**HE'S A FUCKING MAN. That likes fucking men. It's cool.**

**(And I couldn't stand the thought of Goddy killing Arvel. It was supposed to be that he was acting all friendly to him, then he stabs him in the stomach, and Hadvar's all horrified, and Goddy's all, "I don't give a fuck,", but I chickened out and the Draugr did it. YOU ALL SAW IT.)**

**By the by, this chapter is a love child between me and the video "Ten Hours of Skyrim's Theme Song!" So…Yeah. I was in a Dovahkiin mood. Shut up.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Pyrophobia**

The call came in early morning. I wasn't asleep, as Hod hadn't been forced to sleep in the shed for once and was snoring so loud it shook the house. I'd been sitting in bed, carving the bow for Frodnar when I heard it, and I almost snapped the bow in half. I set it down and listened to the thundering above me.

"_Do-vah-kiin…"_ The sky seemed to draw the word out.

The others had woken up, but only Ralof stared at me. I'd read about the strange voice I'd used in the Barrows and realized it was similar to the Shouts of dragons. I told Ralof, and he admitted that a lot of evidence seemed to be piling up about my identity. He knew what the word meant, as did I. I breathed shakily and pursed my lips.

Who could've known that I'd used a Shout? Irileth's men, I'd heard, had forgotten my incident with the dragon soul. They now think it was merely a hallucination and that I could never be the Dragonborn. I was too young, apparently, even though Dovahkiin are born with dragon blood. And Hadvar hadn't really seen anything, as he'd entered the main chamber after I'd read the word, and Arvel was dead. It was disturbing to think that anyone knew something that I was sure was completely private.

"What was that?" Gerdur asked, rushing to her son's bed and comforting him.

"It was nothing. Maybe just a lightning storm. I'll go check the weather," I said hurriedly. Ralof got up, too, insisting that he check with me. We both got out of the house as soon as possible. It _was_ actually raining, but the last time I check, rain clouds didn't call for the Dragonborn.

"What in Oblivion?" I breathed, putting my face in my hands. I didn't feel the need to cry, but I was frustrated. I didn't know what was happening, nor did I have any control over what had happened as of late. From what I've read, the Dragonborn absorbs a dragon's soul and uses it to use the Thu'um. They were supposed to fight dragons, and kill them. That was what they were born to do.

Dragons frightened me to my very core. Giants? Easy. A Sabre Cat? Practically a kitten. Frostbite Spider? Creepy but manageable. Damn, even a Troll is simple in comparison. But Dragons make me freeze, make my insides turn to nothingness. Their power, strength, fire…

"I have no idea," Ralof said. He was leading, and directing me to the bridge just outside the village. It was a nice place to speak, and I could see the fish bounding out of the water as the storm pounded the water.

"I understand it," I said. "I'm the Dragonborn. I've absorbed a dragon's soul and I've used a Shout. There's no denying it now. But if there's suddenly this dragon epidemic, and I'm the only one who can kill them permanently…Skyrim is in trouble."

"You killed the other dragon," Ralof said.

"What if I can't do it again? What if it was just an accident and I just get myself killed the next time I face a dragon?"

"What went through your head exactly, the last time you met a dragon?" Ralof asked, stopping on the bridge and leaning on the raised edge. I climbed on the highest point of the ledge, right next to Ralof, and let my legs hang over the water.

"I don't know," I sighed, thinking back. "Hunting and…Fear. I remember thinking that it was my hunting experience that saved me, and made it easier. But…"

I shook my head and Ralof put a hand on my shoulder. I looked at him and he smiled, "I think you'll do fine. You just need to practice."

"How am I supposed to practice for the fire, Ralof? I can't even stand the sight of a flame, let alone fight a monster that breathes it. I just remember how it felt to be burned so severely, and I freeze. I can't move, or think."

Ralof's eyes widened, "You're still scared of fire?"

"You would be too if you'd nearly died!" I defended.

"I didn't mean it that way," Ralof said. "I just didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Why me?" I whispered. "Why not someone more brave, that could actually battle a dragon without shaking in his boots?"

"You didn't shake in your boots," Ralof said.

"You obviously weren't there."

Ralof didn't reply. We ended up sitting on the bridge for hours. I caught some fish as they jumped out of the water, and Ralof busied his hands with skinning them. We made minimal conversation, and I noticed that Ralof didn't mention the call for the Dovahkiin, or my inability to be what I was born to be. By the time we decided to head back home, the sun was rising.

"Ugh, what _is_ that?" I asked suddenly, just as Ralof was gathering the fish meat to leave.

"What's what?"

"That horrible smell. Like…Blood and decomposing!" I covered my nose and hissed, looking down the trail by the other side of the river, searching for the source of the smell. I was answered with a horse-drawn cart, carrying a Whiterun guard guiding the horse and several dead animals in the back. I gagged and Ralof pulled me behind his back. I argued as he kept me standing behind him, insisting that I could take care of myself, but Ralof just hushed me and allowed the guard to approach him.

"What is your business in Riverwood?" Ralof asked. I could feel the anxiety rolling off of Ralof, and I wondered if he, possibly, had any bounties after him in Whiterun.

"I'm here for the Dragonborn. He's been requested by the Jarl," The guard said. "Would you happen to know who that is?"

Ralof looked at me over his shoulder and I nodded. Slowly, he let go of my wrist and I stepped around him. The guard looked shocked, as if he hadn't known I was standing behind Ralof, and I rolled my eyes. There wasn't that much of a height difference between Ralof and I, and it wasn't as if I'd been crouching. Whiterun guards were _very_ observant.

"What?" I growled.

"You're requested to come to Whiterun," The guard repeated. "You _are_ the Dragonborn, right?"

"_Yes_. Why am I supposed to come to Whiterun? The last time I was there, I nearly skewered your Jarl, I was under the impression my return wouldn't be that welcomed."

"The Jarl send a letter saying all crimes are forgiven."

"Forgiven, not forgotten. And I haven't forgotten that your Jarl disgusts me. Tell him to screw off."

The guard dug around in the pouch on his thigh and removed a piece of paper, "It is concerning the Greybeards' summons."

Ralof blinked, "That was the Greybeards?"

"Ay."

"Who are the Greybeards?" I asked. Both Ralof and the guard gave me strange looks. "Okay, I was raised on the run, in Cyrodiil for most of my life. Excuse the fuck out of me for not asking my mother for a bedtime story while we were dodging the Thalmor."

"They're the masters of the Voice, Godrael. They live on the Throat of the World. On High Hrothgar. If they're requesting you, they must've heard your Shout."

"Well…What does that have to do with Jarl Useless?"

The guard coughed, "Jarl _Balgruuf _has made the trek up the seven thousand steps before. He wishes to speak with you in order to prepare you for your journey."

"He just wants on my good side so I don't let his city get burned down by dragons."

"That's what I was thinking," Ralof said, glaring at the guard. Ralof, for whatever reason, was more defensive of me when he thought I was being taken advantage of. It usually had to do with shopkeepers and the like that tried to cheat me out of my money. Since I haven't been in Skyrim since I was five, and I've been living off of my own hunting, I didn't know much about haggling. Ralof insisted on coming with me every time I went to buy something, and this seemed no different.

"He is trying to lend a helping hand, so that you both might have a peaceful…arrangement."

"He's trying to use Godrael," Ralof argued. "I'm going with him."

Inwardly, I sighed with exasperation. While it had been a comforting thought at first that Ralof would always have my back, I'd failed to realize that it would mean his constant presence around me at all times. I couldn't even go hunting alone anymore, because Ralof insisted that a Sabre Cat might attack me from behind—even though he'd seen me kill several before, and it was always with practiced ease.

On the outside, however, I just shrugged, raising an eyebrow at the guard.

"The more the merrier," He didn't sound very merry, but I figured he'd been told to get me to Whiterun at all costs. I mused that perhaps I should've asked for something larger, like money or jewels. But what would I do with all the money it would take for me to be convinced to stand the Jarl's company? And I wasn't the jewel-wearing type.

"We have to tell Gerdur," I said. "If you don't mind, I'm sure it will only take a moment."

Gerdur, it seemed, was resistant against letting us leave. I'd just gotten back from the Barrow yesterday morning and I'd been gone all night 'checking the weather', ("Only prostitutes stay out that late at night! Is that what you're doing now? Being a prostitute?") and she still hadn't tended my wounds. Eventually I talked her into it, smoothly explaining that it was the Jarl himself that had requested me as an offer of peace after he'd offended me the last time I was in his presence. She reluctantly gave us the blessing to go, and we travelled back to the guard.

The trip was long, and Ralof had ripped part of his shirt in order to make a mask for me since it was obvious that I wouldn't make it to Whiterun without throwing up if I continued to inhale the stench from the decomposing animals in the cart. I almost declined the impromptu mask, but I took it anyway, knowing that Ralof's shirt probably smelled better than a dead Skeever.

The road was bumpier on a cart than I would've ever liked to know. Truthfully, I could've made it to Whiterun on foot faster than the cart. Which was sad, since I stopped constantly to shoot animals and catch fish. We arrived in mid-afternoon, and I removed my mask and got as far away from the cart as I could, approaching the gates.

As with the last time I was here, I was constantly stared at. No one said anything as Ralof and I walked to Dragonsreach, but it was probably because we were dressed in normal clothes instead of Stormcloak armor. The inside was as extravagant as ever, but I didn't miss that the food from the grand table had been removed. It was impossible to tell if it had been taken for my visit, or was only set during actual meals, but I would bet it was the former.

"Jarl Balgruuf," I said boredly, walking up to the older Nord's throne.

"Ah, Dragonborn. So nice of you to come," He replied, smiling tightly and standing.

"I didn't think I had much of a choice. Your guard sounded like he would've followed me around like a lost puppy if I didn't go with him."

The Jarl's smile never faltered, and it was making me uneasy.

"I see you brought a guest."

"This is Ralof," I said, tapping my knuckles against Ralof's chest. "That's all you need to know."

The slight glare the Jarl sent my way didn't go unnoticed, but I just grinned. For some reason, making him angry seemed entertaining—perhaps because it was so easy to do.

"All right then," The Jarl said, clasping his hands together. I noticed the knuckles were unusually white, and it gave me a thrill to know I pissed him off so much. "Well, as the guard should've informed you, I'd like to help you prepare for your journey to High Hrothgar."

I could feel Ralof's constant glare sweeping past my head and directly at the Jarl. If I didn't know better, I could've sworn that Balgruuf was sweating under my friend's hateful gaze. This was an amazing place to be, at the moment. I'd never seen a Jarl visibly sweat before. It was obvious that Jarl Useless broke easily.

I filed the information away and tilted my head, "Help me prepare how?"

"Well, I could give you some armor—"

"I have armor made from dragon hide. I don't think there's much stronger than that."

"Weapons…"

"I still have my axe, and my bow will be more of an ally than any weapon you could possibly provide."

"…Information?"

That, at least, interested me. What information could I get about High Hrothgar?

"Go on," I said, crossing my arms across my chest.

"There are many Frost Trolls, so I would warn you to be prepared. If possible, I would learn how to use fire to your—"

The reaction is immediate and I heard my own voice and Ralof's together say, "No," automatically. The Jarl, for whatever reason, didn't question this. He just nodded.

"And I would pack for cold weather," He finished.

"I can survive fine in the cold," I said, picking at my nails boredly.

"You're Half-Khajiit."

I looked up, "Is that the only thing that anyone focuses on? I'm also Half-Nord, and I was raised in Skyrim and the border of Cyrodiil. I can handle cold."

The Jarl must know he touched a nerve, and I can see that he'll remember it, just as I'll remember each of his weaknesses. If this how it feels to have an acquaintance that feels more like a rival? Each meeting is force-fed civility while we nitpick each other's faults? If so, I sincerely can't wait for my next visit.

"Also," The Jarl said. "I believe that there was a strange Khajiit man that requested to enter the city. It was allowed permission until he…well, he asked to see you. It was just after I'd sent my guard to retrieve you."

I looked up, "Did he give a name?"

"Forgive me if this comes across as racist, but I couldn't pronounce it if I tried. All I know is that he was sent to the camp set up outside Whiterun's walls. He was dressed as a monk, if I remember."

Khajiit religious figures, sometimes called monks by other races, were rare in Skyrim, considering my father's people often fell to petty thievery (and also thievery of the not-so-petty kind) to make ends meet. But in Elsweyr, they were quite common. There was only one monk that would even care where I was, and follow me here.

"I don't believe you," I said. The only monk that would go through all the trouble to follow me here, and even risk his neck trying to get into the city walls, had been imprisoned with my father for unlawful worship. That had been when I was six, the same age I was when I became the man of my house. Thirteen years. It was impossible he was alive. "He's dead. I know he is. He was imprisoned years ago."

"They don't always kill prisoners," The Jarl said. It almost sounded sincere, as if he started actually caring. The, I realize, it was probably just to hit another nerve with me and hope I responded with sugar and not blood.

"No, they don't," I knew that, but what they did wasn't any better. The word _torture_ hung in the air thickly, and we all knew what it meant. If the monk was alive, then it was possible he was insane.

"He's just outside the city walls. You might've not seen the camp, it's a little ways off. Very small. It wouldn't hurt to check."

A part of me suspected a trap, even though it would be a negative move on the Jarl's part. It was instinct to expect the worst, after seeing innocents fall into traps and die slowly and painfully. But Ralof wasn't raised in that world, and he guides me gently to the entrance of Dragonsreach, then the entrance of Whiterun, and finally, we search for the small camp that the Jarl described. I used my nose to my advantage and found the very strong scent of another Khajiit male (a skill that came in handy for my territorial ancestors, and hasn't really helped me until now), which had previously been masked by the scent of rotting animals.

We approach the camp and find it empty. I don't dare to enter it without permission, but Ralof sees no harm. I still smell the Khajiit male, but I feared that my nose had gone crazy along with my mind. Was I just smelling him because I wanted him to be here? Because I wanted some memory of my innocence? Maybe I wanted some hope that my father could still be alive?

A large weight suddenly fell on my back, and I found myself held tightly against a solid body. The frame is lithe and light, with wiry muscles and robes that flutter around me in the breeze. It almost felt like an attack, but after a moment, I realized I was being held lovingly, a purring in my ear and my hair being stroked, like when I was a child.

"It's so nice to see you again, kit," A gravelly, accent-ridden voice told me, strong arms squeezing around my waist. I had a feeling he wanted to pick me up and spin me around like he used to, but I was far too heavy now.

"You too, Ma'keer."

Ralof had just spun around, only to see me being hugged by a Khajiit man. He looked understandably confused.

"Ralof, this is my father's brother, Ma'keer. Uncle, this is my friend, Ralof."

With the introductions done, Ma'keer released me and invited us to sit around the fire with him. Ralof and I, used to such cold weather, are forced to sit back from the flame. I looked away from it, not wanting to tell my uncle of my phobia in fear that he'd feel guilty and put it out, only to freeze himself. Ma'keer explained that he'd been held by the Imperials for unlawful religion to Ralof, who didn't doubt it in the least. He then told us that he'd managed to escape during the public torture of another man imprisoned for murder, when a dragon's shrieks were heard in the distance and all of the guards—having heard about Helgen—went into chaos to try and prepare the village and prison for an attack. He, unfortunately, was unable to save my father, but reassured me that he was alive and well.

"Why did you attack before?" Ralof said. "I mean, why hide in the tree?"

"Truthfully, I was planning to kill the both of you," Ma'keer admitted sheepishly. "But it was only on instinct. I smelled two other males, and my old blood made me think I was in danger. I wouldn't have attacked if I recognized Godrael's scent, but it's changed since he's…He's a man!"

Uncle wrapped me in another hug and I laughed a little. I always remembered him making up for my father's distant attitude by being overly-proud and emotional. I was glad to know that even Imperial prison, daily executions, and public maiming couldn't change him.

"It's understandable, Uncle. I don't blame you. I would've done the same thing."

Uncle smiled and we sat around the fire and talked well into the night. I told Ma'keer of the allegations that I was the Dragonborn ("I always told your father that there was something special about you. It was written in the stars!") and my summons to the Greybeards. He listened in rapt attention, grinning like a fool. I skimmed around my first battle with a dragon, and almost skipped the Helgen incident, but Ralof insisted I tell my uncle of my fears. Ma'keer was sympathetic and even gave me a hug. When he asked if I'd like him to put out the camp fire, I came to a realization that shocked me into silence.

I hadn't thought of the fire, not two feet away from me, for five hours.

**END**

**I've been told that a Half-Khajiit and Half-Nord is a little unrealistic.**

**First: A man can duel-wield a sword and a fistful of fire, but a Khajiit and a Nord can't have a kid? Seems legit.**

**Second: You must remember—I RUN THIS SHIT. Deal.**

**And DAMN. SO MANY FAVORITES. SOOOOO MANY.**


	10. Chapter 10

**This is reaaaaallly late. I'm sorry, but my uncle recently got really sick and I've been going back and forth between his house, the treatment place and my own house for about three weeks. I don't think I'll have any more interruptions like that, but I can't guarantee anything.**

**Pyrophobia**

Ralof and I head back home in the morning, as Ma'keer had forced us to stay in the city overnight. I hadn't been able to turn down my uncle, and Ralof was scared witless of him, so it wasn't as if we needed much convincing.

I toyed with the heavy piece of jewelry that hung around my neck, and Ralof's glances at the new addition to my apparel didn't go unnoticed. My uncle, upon seeing us leave Whiterun at sunrise, had stopped us and pulled me aside, giving me an Amulet of Mara and putting it on me. He explained that he feared for me, that I would be lonely forever because of all the hurt I've been through. He wanted me to find someone to marry and keep me happy, since life was short and all that. I'd taken it and promised him that I'd wear it until I found someone.

Frankly, I hated the idea of marriage. I found, shortly after Uncle giving me the amulet, that I'd never thought about it very much. Before my mother died, I was too young to think about it. Afterwards, I was a bit preoccupied with the survival of my village and myself. The more I contemplated it, the more I hated it. If I really did accept my fate as the Dragonborn and kill dragons for a living, I would be leaving my spouse at home to wander around like a lonely old widow, wondering if I'd even come home. I wouldn't want anyone I cared about living with that kind of uncertainty. It was bad enough that I had Uncle, Gerdur, and Ralof to think about.

"Stop staring at it," I said, still looking ahead at the trail. Ralof's head snapped forward and I sighed. "I realize it's strange, but Uncle insists I find someone. I don't even know why he's so bent on it."

"Have you…Ever thought about it?" Ralof asked hesitantly.

"Not until now. I really don't like the idea."

Ralof raised an eyebrow, "Why? Wouldn't you like to know…I don't know, you had someone to love you?"

"That's the point. They _would_ love me and I would love them but…I'm the Dragonborn. I have to go with that. If I left them all alone, wondering if I was dead or alive every moment I was gone…" I shook my head and trailed off. Ralof nodded and patted my shoulder.

We didn't talk for the entire trip home, and Gerdur met us at the entrance. I wondered briefly how she'd know we were coming home today, but she just brushed it off as mother's intuition. I filled her in on all that had gone on: My preparation to brave the steps to High Hrothgar, my uncle being alive, my father _possibly_ being alive, and, lastly, the Amulet of Mara that she'd been eyeing curiously the entire time I'd been talking.

"My uncle Ma'keer insists I wear it so I can find happiness. I won't live forever, if I can find that one person I should, all that."

"I think he's right."

I stared at her, and she stared right back, eyebrow raised in a way that was so similar to the way Ralof did it, it was scary.

"What? You're a man. You need someone to spend the rest of your life with."

"Can't I just become a monk?" I moaned, crossing my arms on the dinner table and slamming my forehead into them.

"No," Gerdur said firmly. "You _will_ find a spouse and you _will_ be happy, Godrael, even if I have to beat you into submission to do it!"

Something in Gerdur's tone told me that she could and would beat me until I bowed to her wishes.

"Fine. But I'll take my time doing it."

"It would probably ruin it if you rushed into anything, anyway," Gerdur said, satisfied that she'd won. "Now you two go hunt. I want some fresh meat to celebrate Godrael finally stopping his overly-emotional pity party."

I gathered my bow and arrows and my game bag and waited for Ralof at the door. We headed off to the forest. I tucked the amulet into my shirt and readied my bow when the scent of a big, fat bear nearby drifted towards me.

"I've got him," I muttered, handing Ralof my hunting bag silently and creeping up the tree. I had to hop a few branches, but eventually I had the bear in my sights. It was a burly male, storing up for hibernation. I notched my bow and aimed, ready to take the thing out.

"Godrael!" I felt the branch below my feet shake and snap before I fell to the ground. The bear became agitated and attacked. I stabbed a knife into its skull and pulled it out hurriedly, and even then the beast trashed about some, sending blood and brains everywhere. When he stopped, I spat out some of the grey matter and wiped my mouth. Ralof ran up behind me.

"That's just disgusting," He commented, rubbing away some of the carnage from my cheeks.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've eaten bear brains."

"I didn't need to know that."

"Of course you did," I said. I turned to him and crossed my arms. "Why did you break the branch? I almost had him."

"What?"

"You broke the branch. It snapped right under me and I fell. That's why the bear attacked."

"I didn't break the branch. It must've been a bird."

"Because there are many birds that can break a branch that thick by landing on it."

Ralof glared, "I didn't break it."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know!"

A grunt came from up the tree followed by an awkward cough.

"Ah, Cousin?"

I froze and looked up. There, on a branch, was an older, rougher version of the boy I'd helped keep alive in my village. His hair had grown out, he'd gotten taller, and he was more wiry than before. He was well-fed, just as he had been when I was at the village.

"…Lotus?"

OOOOO

Lotus helped me carve the bear up nicely, prodding uncertainly at the meat in an effort to get it separated from the bone. Ralof showed him how to cut it properly and I worked on cutting the head off. For a bear this fine, I might've kept the head as a trophy, but I'd ruined the skull with the knife. It wouldn't be wall-worthy, anyway.

"Um, Cousin," Lotus said. Like with everything else, he was terribly awkward, speaking like he'd interrupted us in our lack of talking. "Everyone at the village misses you. And I know it's probably none of my business, but we were all wondering…What happened?"

I sighed, "I went out hunting and saw a big Elk near the border. It was stupid to go after it, but we hadn't had fresh meat in weeks, so I did anyway. When I was about to kill it, I noticed an Imperial ambush of a group of Stormcloaks and tried to run, but they caught me and said I was assisting them. Then I was almost executed, a dragon interrupted that, I came to Riverwood and I've, more or less, been here ever since."

"That explains…Well, everything. When are you coming back?" He looked at me hopefully and I swallowed.

"Um. I'm not."

A look a fear crossed Lotus's face. The boy always looked scared, with his bright blonde hair that was almost white and his wide, brown eyes that flickered around like he was expecting to be attacked at any second. To make him even more fearful, well, it had always broken my heart.

"Why not? Godrael, we need you! Grandmother Jasha's been asking where you went off to. Please, you have to come back!"

"I can't."

"Why?"

I looked down, at Ralof, at Lotus, then back at the bear. Sadly, his face was the only one that wasn't expecting an answer in his favor. Dead things were always better to me than living things.

"I have things that need to be cared for here. I've been made Thane of Whiterun…and I have a trip to make tomorrow."

Ralof choked. I hadn't told him I was braving the path to High Hrothgar yet.

"I…I guess I'll just tell them that, then."

We finished skinning the bear in silence. When Ralof asked Lotus if he'd like to meet his sister, Lotus looked down and refused, just bounding into the tree and hopping away. I looked after him for a few minutes, before I turned back to Ralof.

"He hates me now."

"I don't think so."

"He wanted me to go back."

"I know."

"Should I have?"

"…Did you want to?"

I couldn't reply. Did I want to go back to the village? Life was harder there, but it was also simpler. If I left, if I didn't come back and just stayed in that remote little hamlet, I wouldn't have to be the Dragonborn anymore. I wouldn't have to worry about the dragons unless they approached my homestead. I wouldn't be a Thane, I would be a hunter. I could live in semi-peace until I died in twenty-odd years. I could enjoy life for once.

"No," I said finally, gathering the meat and skin from the bear. "I don't want to go. Lotus is a man now, I've trained him well. They'll survive without me for now. I'll visit when things in Skyrim aren't so volatile."

"And when they aren't?" Ralof asked quietly. "Are you ever going to go back and stay?"

I looked down at the dirt, kicking a rock and startling a butterfly.

"I'll cross the bridge when I come to it."

**END**

**Okay, before I get any more comments on how Khajiit and Nords can't interbreed, I would like to remind those who **_**kindly**_** (note: sarcasm) pointed this out that I said I'd never found anything that said they could or couldn't. I would like to say that I was sent the link to The Imperial Library that says it is unclear whether or not they can produce fertile offspring. Doesn't say they can't, doesn't say they can, and I **_**did**_** say I never found a clear source for this information.  
>So you can kindly suck on that.<br>(And did you really expect me to care if they really couldn't? I've got 10 chapters up on this long bitch, did you think I'd change it? Take it down? Please, sirs or madams, don't overestimate yourselves. There are worse fics than mine. Go troll on them.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Daily updates can be found on my profile. They'll pile up, up to day five or six and then I'll erase them and start anew. I can't promise they'll always be relevant, but it'll help the people with this story on their alert know if I'm updating soon or not. It'll probably be stuff like **_**Going to Houston today. Packed my laptop. Getting some writing done. Update expected Wednesday.**_** Something like that. Okay? Okay. Enjoy the goodies.**

**Pyrophobia**

_**Ralof**_

"Try again," The Argonian growled, sipping mead from a large mug and tipping his chair back. Godrael growled at him, but the other man just laughed and scratched the exposed scales of his stomach. "Do it, Half-Breed."

Godrael took a deep breath and stuck out his hand, muttering to himself and closing his eyes. Even from where I was standing the sweat on his brow was obvious, and he was shaking like a leaf. I'd been told to sit down and shut up by the Argonian (named Thez, which was quite obviously an alias) early in this twisted lesson, right after Godrael started crying the first time.

There was a burst of fire from the out-stretched hand, a yelp, and Godrael collapsed to the ground, frantically trying to put out the flames that no longer enveloped him.

"Get up, you pathetic cat," Thez groaned, running a hand over his face in annoyance. I grumbled from my place on the floor, nursing the glass of ale I'd been given in return for my silence. Godrael hissed at him, baring his fangs and digging his claws into the floor.

"Shut up," He growled lowly, narrowing his eyes. "Cats kill lizards, you stupid milkdrinker!"

"At least I don't cry for my mother when I see a tiny flame, you worthless troll."

Godrael snapped, bounding across the room and tackling Thez, sending his chair flying back. He had the Argonian pinned by the neck, his thumb-claws stuck painfully on either side of his windpipe.

"I've fought mudcrabs more fearsome than you," Thez laughed—though a bit of blood came from his mouth while he was talking, so it was obviously proven that Godrael was doing a good job of being fearsome.

"I'll make boots out of you," Godrael growled, digging his claws in deeper. I chose that moment to stand calmly and walk over to put my hand on his shoulder. Godrael didn't let up, but looked at me from the side of his vision. "What?"

"It's probably time to stop, before you kill him. You did come to him, after all."

For a moment, it looked like Godrael would turn on me next, but he just unhooked his claws from underneath Thez's scales and stood, leaning on me. Thez still laid on the ground, looking up at us like Godrael would jump back on him any second.

"Get out of here, you stupid half-breed," Thez growled. His lip snarled and I had to hold Godrael back from stabbing him in the heart. "I have no time for pathetic little girls in my place."

Godrael fought against my hold around his waist, clawing desperately at Thez and my arms. As much as I wanted to just let him go and watch him kill Thez, I knew that wouldn't get him anywhere. I hoisted him over my shoulder and held his legs.

"You're lucky I was here," I said, putting a foot on the Argonian's chest. "Or else you wouldn't be so smug."

"Yeah?" Thez smirked.

I didn't answer, just let up my boot and turned away. Godrael hissed, slashing at Thez behind my back as I walked towards the door.

"I hope you're more faithful to your kind than your mother, Half-Breed!" Thez yelled. "The whore, fucking a Khajiit and getting a pathetic little bastard like you!" He laughed, wheezing between breaths.

That was the last straw. I loosened my arms around Godrael and let him do what he wanted. One happy yowl escaped him as he scrambled off of my shoulder and at Thez. I heard the Argonian begging for his life, shouting and screaming and crying, before there was complete silence. Godrael had stopped growling and I heard a soft purring from where Thez had once been.

I turned, seeing Godrael leaning over Thez's lifeless face, looking into the blank eyes. His mouth was covered in blood, the source obviously being the nasty bite left embedded in the dark green scales. I could imagine a long, thin tail and thick fur if I really tried—and the feline noises he was making didn't exactly make it hard. He was grinning, just as he did after any good kill, and licked the blood off of his lips. It didn't look as if he'd used any weapons other than himself, but it really wasn't need, either.

Thez talked big, and insulted even bigger, but he obviously hadn't been prepared enough for pissing off Godrael. He'd only had one dagger, which was stuck into Godrael's armor and maybe half an inch into his actual flesh, but an Elk had done more damage.

"C'mon Goddy," I said, putting my hand on the back of his neck. He leaned into the touch, the muscles in his shoulders and around his throat tight and coiled, as if expecting another opportunity to kill something for fun. "We better get going."

As I helped Godrael up, I couldn't help the disappointment that washed over me. This was the third person we'd gone to with the hopes they could help with Godrael's pyrophobia, but none of them had panned out. The first had been too lenient, comforting him when he failed and generally pissing him off with her kindness. The second hadn't cared too much either way, letting him fall and pick himself back him, claiming to be helping Godrael stand on his own two feet. The third, Thez, had had the proper dedication and was will to discipline Godrael—possibly too eager. Thez was constantly laughing at him, telling him that it was his Khajiit half that made him weak, and that was one of his lesser insults. The last straw had been insulting Godrael's mother, and putting her honor in question. As far as Godrael was concerned, his mother was off the board for things like that—insult him, his kind, even his friends, but don't insult the woman that gave him life and died in his arms if you plan to live for long.

Godrael allowed himself to be picked up. I knew that after all that spell casting and killing Thez, he wasn't up to walking anywhere, and he was still purring happily. It was rare that he was like that anymore and, even if his smile was slightly maniacal and came from the death of the Argonian man, it was still nice. Sort of.

Godrael ended up falling asleep like that, awkwardly curled up in my arms and heavier than a sack of bricks. I couldn't put him down, though. Instead, I got to the nearest stables and hired a carriage to get up back to Riverwood. I had to pay extra, but I couldn't risk going by foot with Godrael asleep, since he was usually the one to hear, smell, or just seemingly sense danger.

As I went to climb in, I was tapped on the shoulder by a clawed hand. Fearing that it was an assassin, or something worse, I woke up Godrael by plopping him down on the carriage floor so he'd be ready to protect himself.

"Owww…" Godrael moaned, rubbing his head. There was still blood on his lips, streaked and blotchy from him licking them so much. He sat up, blinking wearily as he looked at me. "What?"

"That…Was not Khajiit's intention," A voice behind me said, the clawed hand retracting. Godrael's eyes snapped to the stranger, as if he was about to fend off the other male in his territory. That is, he _looked_ like that, before his eyes widened and he suddenly looked like a kitten.

"…Father?"

I turned to look at the stranger. He was indeed Khajiit, with dark brown fur and bright blue eyes that both matched Godrael's eyes and hair color perfectly. His hair was long and unwashed, pulled back much like my Half-Breed friend's, down with two parts of hair held back in braids around his head, like a crown. He looked elderly in a way I couldn't quite place, as wrinkles and the like were difficult to spot underneath his thick fur. His smile was gentle, like that of an experienced parent, and he looked knowingly at Godrael.

"Darisha is honored that he is remembered after so many years."

Godrael, wasting no time, quickly jumped from the carriage and hurled himself at his father. For a moment, I thought that he was still on a rush from killing Thez and had attacked the older man. Until, of course, I hear him sobbing, and saw him being held expertly in the older Khajiit's arms. Darisha rubbed his son's back, lifting his tail to prod at Godrael's nose. He giggled.

I didn't know Godrael _did_ that.

**END**

**I'm so sorry this is so late, but I visited my uncle for a few days, then I couldn't pay my internet for a couple of weeks, and then Pottermore got out of beta. So…Yeah. Busy. I'd say that updates will be more weekly now, but I can't be sure. I'm going back and forth to Dallas and Houston and Lubbock lately. Commuting sucks ass, seriouslah.  
>By the by…OH GOD, IT'S SO SHORT. (That's what she said) I couldn't get it any longer without feeling guilty (said the plastic surgeon) and it would've taken a few more days to complete if I had.<br>**


	12. Chapter 12

**Pyrophobia**

I couldn't believe that Father was actually alive, and therefor hadn't left his side since I first saw him. I didn't want him to be carried away by Imperials again, and I was sure they'd capture him again if my back was turned. I was curled up at his side, his arm over my shoulders as we rode in the carriage. Ralof and I had discussed sneaking him into Gerdur's house until we found a permanent residence for him.

"What about the old house, Godrael?" Father asked, curiosity in his eyes. I looked away.

"I'm not sure if it's even there anymore. When Manna and me left…" I couldn't talk anymore, and Father just petted my hair.

"This one understands your pain. Your mother was a strong, beautiful woman. Darisha is honored to have been loved by her."

I saw a faint smile on Ralof's face, but it was difficult to know what he was thinking. Instead, I paid attention to Father's toying with my amulet.

"You are getting married?" He asked, frowning deeply and dragging his claws through my hair. To anyone else, it would've hurt or been taken as a threat, but I knew it just meant he was worried. And it kind of felt nice.

"No, Father. This just means that I'm available," I explained.

Father smiled, "Khajiit often confuses these."

"Yeah, I know."

"You want to get married?" He asked.

"No," I admitted, tugging at the amulet. "Uncle Ma'keer made me wear it. Something about finding happiness and that Nords don't live that long these days, with the war and dragons and all."

Father frowned, "Khajiit prefers his son unmarried. It is better this way."

I laughed, and caught Ralof snickering a bit, too.

"That's the way I like it too, Father. But I wear it in case Ma'keer ever decides to hunt me down. He might be upset. I keep it hidden under my shirt, mostly."

"No one has offered?"

"Nope."

"Khajiit is offended."

I snorted, "Why are you offended?"

Father sniffed, baring his left fang slightly, "You take after your mother. Everyone should be falling to your feet begging for a glance at them."

"People may have been doing that for Manna, but this unholy axe on my back wards off most people—especially suitors."

Father didn't say anything, just stared ahead for a while. I guess it was the fact that I _did_ take after my mother (obviously, since I didn't have fur on my face) and Father had worshipped the ground she walked on. Of course he would take offence to the fact that I hadn't gotten any marriage proposals, but I've been told I'm quite a scary bastard almost constantly. I don't blame them.

The carriage ride ended and Father pulled his hood over his head. We led him into Riverwood without much problem other than a few strange looks. However, upon actually getting to the house, we found Frodnar on his bed, staring at us. As soon as Father lowered his hood, the little boy hopped on the bed in an excited manner and said, loud enough for a neighboring village to hear, "Hey Godrael, why'd you bring a Khajiit with you?"

If the Imperial guard outside didn't kill us first, Frodnar wouldn't live to see manhood.

**Oh God the horror.**

**This chapter was written partially by my beta, part by me, and was really short because I couldn't get any more done and my beta is a lazy bitch.**

**I won't be getting to use my birthday gift because of that statement, but it was worth it.**

…**Sort of.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Pyrophobia **

The scent of blood and death was evident, washing over the room and soaking into my skin. I heard screams and shouted confessions echo through the walls, but they all fell on deaf ears. With every strike I heard, my hatred for the Thalmor grew stronger. They were merciless, cutting and burning and disfiguring even after they'd gotten what they wanted. Even if it hadn't been fought for in the first place.

Father and I had been arrested when one of the passing villagers became suspicious of mine and Ralof's "guest" and followed us home. Upon hearing Frodnar's yelling about us having a Khajiit in town, she'd alerted the guards, who turned us in to the Imperials. Against Ralof's wishes, I'd lied about my staying at his sister's house, insisting that I'd forced them to take me in under penalty of death. That had been a few days ago, perhaps a week now.

There wasn't time here. Just random intervals of torture and listening. And waiting.

"If it isn't the Half-breed," I heard the Elven bastard at the entrance of the room. I didn't move, my hands bound above my head and my ankles, to the floor. I'd lost my will to fight my binds days ago, when I heard my father screaming for mercy. He walked closer, grabbing my jaw and lifting my lip to inspect my teeth, like a mutt. "Such pretty fangs you have. Too bad we can't let you keep them."

He pulled out a long file, sharp and thick, and I hissed weakly. He called over an assistant from the next room and ordered him to hold open my jaw. With my fangs exposed, he pressed the file to my pointed canine and ground sharply against it. It was painful as he dulled my fangs little by little, going too far and hitting a nerve. I shouted and he recoiled in false apology.

"Oh, I _am _sorry. Did I…Touch a nerve?" He smiled cruelly and I had to fight my own instinct to bare my fangs. After all, I only had the one now. "Let's get rid of the other one. Maybe the claws, next."

For the next two hours, the only weapons I had left were stripped from me. The very proof of my will to protect myself ground down to nothing. I had lost the means to fight. I had lost myself in the loss of my weapons, my family, and my pride.

"Such a pretty kitty," The High Elf cooed, petting my hair. I didn't snap at him, I was too tired. "Too bad we can't keep you. Lock you up in chains and parade you around with the Thalmor patrols…"

"P-Please…" I begged quietly, nearing tears. My hands were bleeding from the rough treatment, as was my mouth—not to mention the countless other injuries I'd sustained since coming here.

"Please what?" He knew. He knew what I wanted, but he didn't want to give it to me.

"…Kill me. Please, I don't want to live anymore. Kill me. Kill me."

I heard him chuckle and he nodded, lifting a golden blade to my neck, "You're useless to us now. I think that can be arranged."

With that, he slit my throat, blood immediately pouring from the wound. I choked, torn between disgust at the sight of my own throat torn from my skin and skin hanging limply from me as it was bathed in blood, and the pain of having my esophagus ripped out. It didn't take too long to decide, as the pain won over and everything turned black. Before I passed out, I looked up at the Elf, tears of pain and misery in my eyes, and said the two words I never wouldn't thought I'd say to one of the Thalmor.

"_Thank you…"_

**Break**

I knew I wasn't going to Sovngarde, dying like a coward and begging for a Thalmor bastard to take my life, but I hadn't expected total darkness to meet me. I could feel something beneath my feet—a floor? Maybe my imagination?—but all around me there was a sense of…infiniteness. There weren't walls where I was, not even a sky. It felt empty.

"Why did I die?" I asked nothing, flailing my arms and hoping to hit something solid. Nothing. "Why in Oblivion am I here?"

"_Do you even know where _here_ is?"_ The voice was quiet, and all-too familiar. It was gentle—just as loving and maternal as I remember.

"…Manna?" I turned, only to be met with more darkness. I could hear her, but where was she?

"_I'm here, darling."_

"Where?" I felt two arms wrap around my shoulders and tried to turn. Blonde hair blocked my view, soft and braided into a crown, just like mine.

"_Here."_

I couldn't speak, wrapped in the familiar warmth that I'd been so many years without. Since the same woman that was holding me had died in my arms. Now I was dead in hers.

"Manna…" I whispered, hugging her back and burying my face in her shoulder.

"_Shh…"_

"Where are we?" I asked, tightening my grip, praying that she didn't slip away again.

"_Nowhere. I'm not here, and neither are you."_

I looked up from her shoulder and turned my head. Manna backed away from me, showing me familiar pale skin and deep, brown eyes. She was dressed in the slightly torn tunic I'd seen her in last, though it seemed in much better condition than when she'd died. She smiled gently.

"I don't understand," I said. She shook her head, like she would if I'd done something silly as a child.

"_You are not meant to die now darling. There are things that need to be done."_

"Killing dragons?" I asked. It was all I was good for, after all.

Manna stepped forward and grasped my hands, chuckling under her breath. She sighed and looked up at me, _"Darling, you mean so much more than that. There are many who admire you, respect you, and fear you. But there are choice few that love you."_

I didn't have to ask. I already knew who loved me, who feared me, who would hold hatred in their hearts even in the afterlife.

"_Go to them…"_ She didn't explain how I was supposed to leave. I felt her slowly ebb away, her solid form melting away into nothingness.

"Manna!" I gasped, folding my arms, only to meet nothing. She was gone. Just like last time, I was a child without his mother. She'd left me with nothing in my arms.

**BREAK**

And then I was waking up. I was choking on my own blood, and I could feel it pouring down my neck and chest. By some miracle of the Divines, I was alive. The cut on my neck had swelled and clotted, stopping any more blood from escaping me. When I felt less dizzy, I looked up and around the room. Two High Elves were dead on the floor, another trying to crawl from the room, his legs gone from the knee down. I wondered, but had no wish to see, where the other parts of his limbs were.

I was still in my shackles. Who had done this?

"Godrael?"

I turned at the sound of the voice, only to be met with a group of unfamiliar Nords in Stormcloak armor. One of them stepped forward, a brunette with narrow, hazel eyes.

"Are you Godrael?"

I tried to speak, but more blood bubbled from my mouth. I'd swallowed a fair amount, it seemed, and it was all caught in my throat. A few winced, while the rest just stared apathetically. They'd seen worse, I'm sure.

"Let me get you down from there," A blonde woman said, walking towards my chains. She tried to undo the cuffs, but resorted to hacking the chains apart with her axe. "There," She said when I fell to the floor. The brunette man helped me up, letting me lean on his shoulder.

"Are you Godrael?" He asked again. I nodded weakly and he hiked me further up his arm. "We've been told to rescue you."

"Wh…Who?" I coughed, the blood slowly draining down my throat.

"Well, Ralof reported it to a camp near Riverwood first," He said, walking with the rest of the group. I saw that they'd killed all the guards and Thalmor agents here, while losing a surprising few of their own. "He said that a Stormcloak had been taken hostage by the Imperials and their elves. A man from the camp went to Windhelm and told Jarl Ulfric. He wouldn't have it, especially when he heard that it was the refugee that had been mistakenly captured by the Imperial ambush and nearly burnt to death."

"Idiot…" I muttered. "I'll…K-kill him when I…Ugh…" The taste in my mouth was horrible, and my voice was broken from having my throat slit.

"I wouldn't say that in a group of Stormcloaks," He muttered next to my ear. "We don't take death threats to Jarl Ulfric kindly."

I shook my head, "Ralof…Put h-himself…his family in…danger, f-for m-m-me…"

The brunette chuckled, "I'm guessing you're friends, then?"

"Yeah…"

He led me outside with the others. There was a carriage waiting for us, and several of the men stopped to climb in. Some treated wounds, while others prayed to the Divines for their fallen comrades. The brunette helped me up and I was caught by another man—blonde, though darker than Ralof's or my mother's—who seated me beside him.

I was so tired. It felt like it had been weeks since I'd last rested. The woman who'd released me patted me on the arm and offered up her shoulder for the trip to Windhelm. I laid my head on her shoulder and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the carriage, the rebels, and the wilderness surrounding us.

For the first time in a while, I slept.


	14. Epilogue

**Pyrophobia**

_**Epilogue**_

"I'm sorry," I said, stuffing my travel bag with knives and clothing. There was food in there somewhere, no doubt, since Gerdur had been in my bag earlier. Ralof sat on his bed, looking at me sadly as I packed. "I…I can't stay. I just…"

I trailed off, looking across the room at the mirror in the corner. After being in the torture room—for over two months, as I later found out—my hair had thinned and lost some of its color, as stress will do sometimes. There was a fine vein of grey trailing from my roots to the ends. My eyes had sunken in, and held a tint of paranoia and weariness that I would carry with me always. And death, but that went without saying. My cheeks were thinner, as was the rest of me. My tongue had scars from where I'd bitten it to stifle a scream of pain, giving it the appearance of a cave drawing—white lines in swirls and along the bumpy edges of the muscle. I still wasn't able to talk right, even after all these months.

I'd aged twenty years in a month. I looked like Death itself might, if it was a man.

"Why?" Ralof demanded. He'd done everything under the sun to try and get me to stay—he'd promised he'd take care of me, he'd offered money and armor, he'd even confessed love to try and sway me. While that may have changed my mind before, I was different now. I wasn't a suitable husband for anyone. Perhaps if he'd wanted me to stay with him forever, he should've said something before I was almost killed.

"Because…" My brain worked to find the words. _I _knew why I was leaving, but I wasn't able to get it across to anyone else. "I…I can't…"

"Fine," Ralof sighed. "Fine. You can't give me an answer. Where will you go? Have you even figured that much out?"

I shrugged, "Walk. I'll walk and…where I end up. I'll just…go wherever." I stood, swinging the bag over my shoulder and turning towards the door. Frodnar's bow was hanging on a hook. I remembered how he'd cried and hugged me around the waist, swearing that he'd take an oath of silence. I wanted so badly to smile at that, or cry with him, but I couldn't. I just couldn't…_feel_ anymore.

"You're going to get yourself killed," He said desperately.

One last look at the mirror made up my mind, "Too…too late for that." I turned to the door, adjusting the bag on my shoulder, and reached out to push it open. I felt Ralof tug on my shirt and turned my head. "What?"

He didn't say anything, just looked me in the eyes for a moment. He looked as if he was looking for something, anything, that betrayed any emotion. He wanted me to somehow feel like this was wrong, just like he did. He wanted me to break under his gaze and fall into his arms and cry.

But he blinked and shook his head. That was what I'd been waiting months for—for him to realize that I'm not his friend anymore. I'm not myself now.

Ralof looked down in disappointment and leaned forward. He kissed me in the corner of my mouth before releasing me. I stared at the floor, then lifted my gaze to him.

"Sorry."

"I know," He said.

I opened the door, and I walked out. No one stopped me, no one spoke. Gerdur held back her son as I walked past the mill, silent tears rolling down her face as she told him to be a man. I wandered out of the village, past the trees and river. Not even a wolf dared to cross my path—perhaps seeing my ax or sensing my instability. I stopped on the trail and looked at the sky, coming to the realization that I had nothing holding me back.

I could go anywhere.

BREAK

Once again, I found myself under Ulfric's banner. Days of walking and carriage rides had brought me to Windhelm, facing the magnificent palace that may have impressed me many moons ago. An empty bottle of mead was thrown at my feet with a curse to my father's ancestors from a drunk man. I ignored it and approached the Valunstrad.

"Halt!" A guard shouted. I paused and looked at him passively. Somewhere to my right, a fire crackled and warmed my side. "What business do you have in the Palace of the Kings?"

The guard was a Nord—obviously, as he was guarding a Stormcloak's palace—and was dark haired. I couldn't see his eyes clearly, but his voice was adolescent, though it also held the strength of an officer.

"Ulfric…I…see Ulfric."

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked behind me. The blonde woman from my rescue stood behind me, her shoulders squared and her armor freshly polished.

"This one is cleared for entry, Embry, always."

We were nodded inside, and I followed numbly beside her. She led me through the throne room—which was empty—and to another room, with a large map of Skyrim in the middle and two men arguing inside.

"My Jarl," The woman spoke up, and the two men turned around. I recognized only one, who was Ulfric. The other was a short, stocky man dressed in intimidating furs and weapons. "We found him outside."

Ulfric nodded to me, and I returned the motion. He approached me and looked me over, admiring my weapons and staring in disgust at the scars I received from, as he muttered under his breath, "those Thalmor bastards". When he asked me to open my mouth, I obeyed, and almost immediately afterwards he told me to shut it again. I realized that all of my teeth were either shattered or jagged, and my tongue was no better.

"Have you come to join the fight, Half-Breed?" Ulfric asked, raising his chin a fraction. I thought over this for only a moment before nodding.

"If you don't mind me asking," The man in furs said. "But why would a Half-Breed want to fight for the Stormcloaks?"

I looked at him, now, "My mother…A Nord. She was…Proud. Died…proud…by Imperials," I took a deep breath, steadying myself and choosing my next words carefully. "Only person I'll ever love is a Nord. I want to fight…to fight for them."

"Tell him the oath," Ulfric said. The other man almost argued further, but the Jarl stopped him. "He's survived a dragon attack, Imperials killing his family, and being tortured by the Thalmor. My soldiers tell me he's a worthy fighter, and I believe them. Tell him the oath."

The man in furs sighed and pulled me by the arm to stand in front of him, "Repeat after me, Half-Breed.

"I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim..."


End file.
